


Out Of The Embers

by commoncomitatus



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Crisis of Faith, F/F, Feelings, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-07 23:56:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 55,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4282824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commoncomitatus/pseuds/commoncomitatus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leliana has lost her way; Sera is just plain lost.  Josephine, naturally, thinks this is a perfect fit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

—

“ _Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide_ …”

Ah, but if only it were so simple.

Look up to the heavens and see the Maker’s will all laid out, as clear and bright as the Breach pulling the skies asunder, finding the answers to every question mapped out even before they’re asked, seeing the past and the future in clouds and stars and sunlight. As simple as that, yes? As simple as it used to be, as it was when she was young and idealistic and foolish, in the sweet innocent years before life taught her a very different lesson, lashed out with a very different kind of simplicity.

No. Leliana is not so young now, not so idealistic or so foolish. She cannot blind herself to the Breach, to the damage the world has suffered, to the pain bleeding through everything she sees, everyone she meets, everything she touches. She does not have the luxury of believing in the things she once did, not any more, and when she looks to the skies now, it is not guidance she finds but a hole that threatens to drown the world.

How could anyone see the Maker’s work in such a thing?

The world has changed. It is no longer the comfortable place she used to know, a garden where roses bloomed and sunshine was warm. It is calloused now, cold and corrupt, and the people that live here are lost and lonely. She hears their whispers when she walks through Haven, hushed and awestruck and disbelieving. _‘She knew the Hero of Ferelden,’_ they say, and she does not have the heart to tell them what that truly means, does not have the heart to shatter a decade’s worth of faith with a few careless cutting words. Let them have their delusions, if that’s what they need to find some measure of comfort in these dark days.

She did know her, it is true. The ‘Hero of Ferelden’, such as she was. Oh, yes, Leliana knew her entirely too well; she still carries the mark of that time, does she not? Still sees it every time she allows herself to find a mirror, still feels it burning in her blood when she lets herself remember. It is not a brand she can lose as easily as a name, and it burns and hot inside of her, a permanent reminder of how much it costs to trust, to believe. There may yet be hope for the hole in the sky, a new hero, styles _Herald_ this time, but the holes that older Heroes left in Leliana can’t be patched up so neatly.

It was no simple thing, clawing back her shattered faith when her body was shattered as well, coming back to herself a lifetime after the fact, after the _temple_ , and wondering why. The same temple, yes, the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and it seems that history is doomed to repeat itself again and again in such a place. Because here she is again, _Haven_ , alive when she should not be, breathing with a broken heart, and once again she asks herself _why_. Why is she still here? How did she survive the first time, and how has she survived again?

She remembers the first time. Remembers the pain, not simply the physicality of it but the treachery as well, remembers that being the deepest cut of all. A Hero, yes, and Leliana put her faith in such a person, only to see it betrayed in the final moment. _Here_ , or perhaps _there_ , that damned temple that claims life after life, endless and senseless and awful. She doubts she’ll ever know why she survived back then, why the Maker saw fit to carry her back from the brink, and she will certainly never know why He saw fit to deny such salvation to the one person who deserved it most.

Divine Justinia, the Most Holy. She is dead, yet Leliana still lives. How is that fair? How is that just?

She tells herself it must be. It must be, yes, or what is there left? She tells herself that it was the Maker’s will, that He saved her back then for some unseen purpose, that her work is still not done. She tells herself that He is not finished with her yet, that she will one day be called to some higher purpose, that she must be because she is here, alive, because she survived and Justinia did not. Again and again, she tells herself that the Maker stands by her side… that, though all before her is shadow, he shall be her guide.

She tells herself all those things, yes… but oh, it is so difficult to believe them.

Haven is not the village she remembers. It seems colder, for a start, though perhaps that is her imagination, a trick of the mind or else the body, imagining things to be something they are not, seeing change where there is none. It would hardly be the first time she was guilty of such a thing, and it certainly won’t be the last. In any case, true or not, she finds herself shivering down to her bones, grateful for the weight and strength of her new armour, grateful for the way the chainmail settles about her like a cloak, grateful for the heavy fabric of her hood, the way it shields her face from the biting wind… grateful, above all else, for the way it hides her eyes.

It is a spymaster’s job to remain hidden. So she says, and if some of the more keen-eyed recruits wonder if perhaps she has more personal reasons for keeping herself in the shadows, they are sensible enough not to mention it.

Haven’s chantry is enormous. It towers over the village, utterly inescapable no matter where she stands, no matter where she turns her gaze. She cannot avoid it, cannot hide from it and, perhaps worst of all, she cannot deny it; it is always there, looming at the edge of her vision, waiting. Much like the Chant, it seems that the Chantry always finds her.

“… _there is no darkness in the Maker’s Light_ …”

She whispers the words, barely audible, with all the familiarity of an old friend. She has so few of those left, friends, but this one brings her little comfort. Ironic, in a tragic way; prayer should always be a comfort, even a cold one, but now the words taste bitter on her tongue and turn her thoughts to poison. It feels like a lie, like deception and mistrust and betrayal, like blood on her lips, faith coming undone, like pain tearing her body asunder, tearing her from her path, like the Hero’s blade sinking into her chest again and again, each nightmare a reimagining of the moment, pain flaring higher with the ever-burning question, _why_? 

The Maker’s Light. So why do the shadows remain as dark as ever?

She sighs, closes her eyes, and prepares to begin again. “ _Maker, my_ —”

“Oi, Knifey!”

She recognises the voice instantly, of course, but it is a few long moments before she realises that the name itself is aimed at her; it is an odd choice, to be sure, though given what little she’s managed to dig up on the Herald’s latest ‘acquaintance’, that isn’t exactly unexpected. The young woman, Sera, appears to be chaotic at best and downright absurd at worst, so it is little surprise that she would choose such a colourful turn of phrase to introduce herself. Still, though, even by her standards the choice of greeting is… unexpected.

“I beg your pardon?”

Sera is grinning, but it’s not the kind of grin one would expect in a situation like this. Leliana has seen that kind of smile before, though seldom in people; from her experience, it is more common in wildlife, specifically animals who are uncertain whether to be angry or afraid. Defensive, yes, teeth more bared than flashing. She is swaying a little as well, rocking on her heels as though nervous. No doubt the Chantry gossips have been spinning yet more of their delightful horror stories about the sinister Sister Nightingale.

Still, for all her obvious discomfort, Sera keeps her voice steady. “That’s you, innit?” she presses. “Knifey Shivdark, yeah? All cloaked up and secrety and shanking people in the dark and shite? Sound familiar?”

“I…” It’s not often that Leliana finds herself lost for words, but this manages it quite efficiently. “I’m sorry. What, exactly—”

“Your lady-friend told me. The fancy one with the ruffles. You know.” She winks, and when she clears her throat it is uncomfortably suggestive. “Well into you, by the way. _‘Friend’_ , yeah? I know that kind of friend, all right.”

“I have no idea what you—”

“Course you don’t. All good, innit?” She winks again, and Leliana shakes her head, rather more with disbelief than anything else. “Anyway, she said, _‘you want someone to talk to about getting shivved, that’s Sister Nightingale’_. Like, exactly like that, all _‘sisss-ttterrr nigh-ting-ale’_ , proper slow and stupid. Think she figured I was daft or something.”

“I can’t imagine where she’d get an idea like that.”

The sarcasm tastes surprisingly pleasant after so much wasted prayer, though she doesn’t miss the way Sera flushes, embarrassment coloured by carefully-checked anger; this is not the first time she’s been called such a thing, Leliana realises, and instantly regrets her tone.

“Oi,” Sera snaps, voice thick. “Didn’t come here for backchat, did I? Get enough of that shite in the frigging tavern.”

“Of course you do. My apologies.” She takes a breath, a moment for herself, steadies her mind and shakes her thoughts free of futile prayer, of the Maker, of so many things that leave her so lacking lately. “Very well, then. Josephine sent you to me to discuss… knives, was it?”

Sera’s grin widens, if such a thing is possible, and becomes just a little less feral. “Yeah. You the right one for that, or not? Because if I’m wasting my time out here, I’ve got an arrow with Ruffley Ponceyfart’s frigging name on it.”

“That… I’m sure that won’t be necessary…” Leliana closes her eyes, wills the last lingering echoes of the Chant to silence themselves, and turns her back on the chantry. She finds Sera bouncing on the balls of her feet, clearly itching for attention; in fairness to the odd little thing, Leliana supposes it is the least she can do to offer it. “You’re aware that we have a quartermaster to supply such things, yes?”

Sera bristles, shoulders tightening. She is so incredibly defensive, Leliana notes, and feels an odd ache in her chest.

“I look like an idiot to you?” she mutters. “Course I bloody know that.”

Leliana nods, unsure as to how to proceed. Even from these few moments, it is obvious that Sera is nothing like the people she usually deals with, nobles with large egos or desperate people with dark secrets. Sera is odd, difficult to understand and quick to lose her patience on the occasions when Leliana needs a moment to catch up. Already, speaking with her is a delicate task, a challenge that Leliana might have relished in another lifetime. For now, though it only riles her own impatience, makes her eager to return to her solitude.

“I see,” she says, and spreads her arms. “Then, ah, what do you need from me?”

Sera stares at her as though Leliana is the ‘daft’ one, the ‘idiot’ who doesn’t understand. Perhaps, in truth, she is.

“Don’t need you to _give_ me a knife, you daft tit,” she says, as though such a thing is obvious. “Need you to _teach_ me.”

It’s about the last thing Leliana expected, honestly, and that is saying something. It is, of course, her job to assess every possible situation, evaluate every conceivable outcome and prepare for anything. Sera is odd, yes, but not unfathomably so, and Leliana had honestly thought she’d had a handle on the situation: a fair assumption that she was either too self-conscious to hunt down the quartermaster, or else simply looking for an excuse to talk with one of the Inquisition’s ‘higher-ups’. Nothing unusual either way, but this is about as far from that as she can imagine.

“I’m sorry…” she says after a moment. “Could you please clarify?”

Sera blows out a breath, annoyance and unease in almost-equal measure. It doesn’t take someone of Leliana’s talents to see that she’s still nervous, that she is not comfortable with this kind of conversation, or perhaps with any kind of conversation at all. No doubt, she is more accustomed to simply taking what she wants and dealing with the consequences later, if ever; a life like hers does not thrive on social etiquette, after all, and though she’s tangibly trying very hard, it is readily apparent that she is new to this — to communication in general, much less asking for favours — and that she finds the whole thing very difficult.

“Look,” Sera mutters at last; she’s stopped looking at Leliana now, and is staring quite pointedly at the ground. “It’s not frigging complicated, is it?”

“I…” But she can’t bring herself to say it, can’t bring herself to make this poor young woman feel even more out of her depth than she already is. “Quite.”

Sera huffs, but doesn’t get defensive again. “You’ve met your ‘Herald’ whatsit, right? Like, proper met her, all up close and personal and shite?” Leliana nods. “So you know what she can do, yeah?”

Leliana thinks about it for a moment, then nods again. She’s not as intimately acquainted with the Herald and her particular skills as Cassandra, but she has researched the woman as thoroughly as she can, and any event she saw beyond all doubt how well she acquitted herself at the Temple of Sacred Ashes; as terrible as the moment was, and as much as Leliana herself was probably in shock throughout the whole thing, still she has seen enough with her own eyes to vouch for the Herald’s talent.

“I am familiar with her, yes.”

Sera relaxes ever so slightly. “Well, then. That’s it, innit? Don’t need two of her, do you?” She cocks her head at the bow strapped to her back, a weather-beaten old thing that looks to be held together by the power of positive thinking. “So, you. With your cloaks and your shadowy whatevers and your knowing how to shank some tit in his sleep. You teach me to be something else.”

“I’m sorry?” Leliana manages again, baffled in spite of herself. ““Something… else?”

“Frigging slow as anything, your lot.” She takes a couple of deep breaths, though whether it’s an attempt to quash her impatience or calm her nerves, even Leliana can’t quite tell. “Look. Your Herald, yeah? Good with a bow. Like, real proper good. And that… whatever, right? Guess we can, I dunno, ‘bond’ or whatever. _‘Oh, hey, you love arrows, I love arrows, let’s go have some arrow-babies or something’_. Grand as anything, yeah? But it’s not… I mean, I’m not…”

She trails off, visibly frustrated, and Leliana touches her arm to steady her. “Hm?”

Sera glares. “It’s just… that was my thing, yeah? The arrow thing. Only thing I ever… I mean…” She bites her lip, hard enough that Leliana winces. “I mean, I… I’m good too, yeah… but I’m no frigging Herald of frigging Andraste. And if you… if you only need one… you know, one lot of arrows or whatever… well, it’s not gonna be mine, is it?”

She trails off, takes a couple of steps backwards. Her mouth is already drawing down, brows knitting together, as though she’s already bracing for rejection, as though that is truly all she’s ever known. Leliana feels herself soften, almost against her will, and suddenly has to fight the urge to close the space between them, touch Sera’s arm again, offer the kind of compassion she’s all but forgotten how to feel.

“I see.” She speaks slowly, carefully, as much for her own benefit as for Sera’s. “Given the Herald’s proficiency with a bow, you’re concerned that the Inquisition doesn’t need another archer?”

Sera’s whole face lights up, as though something as simple as this, the most rudimentary level of comprehension, is half the victory won, as though it is enough just to be _understood_ , enough that Leliana hasn’t pushed her away simply for not making sense quickly enough.

“Praise Andraste!” she blurts out, then blushes, as though realising that the Maker and his Bride are a sore spot right now for the Left Hand of the Divine. “Frigging _yeah_. Didn’t come all this way just so you lot could tell me to piss off again, did I? Didn’t come all this way just to not be bloody good enough.” She sighs. “Been doing the arrow thing my whole life, yeah? Don’t know nothing else. Never needed to, and never frigging wanted to neither. But if your Inquisition thing needs me to be something else, guess I better be something else. Yeah?”

“Yes.” She ducks her head, a twitching half-nod. “I understand now.”

Sera beams. “Grand.”

_Not exactly,_ Leliana thinks, but doesn’t say so aloud.

It is obvious that Sera is not used to this sort of company, not at all, and as necessary as it is to turn her away, she doesn’t want that necessity to cause any undue distress. She takes a moment to study her, to contemplate the safest, least painful course of action, the easiest way to let her down without shattering what little remains of her self-respect.

Obviously, she cannot agree to such a thing. That goes without saying. At the very base of it, Leliana herself is an archer as well. That she possesses some moderate skill with knives and such is, of course, not the point; one can hardly be expected to excel at the Game without a leaning towards such things, after all, but the fact remains that Leliana, like Sera, is much more comfortable with a bow on her back.

Besides, and rather more importantly, she has neither the time nor the inclination to start taking idealistic young women under her wing on some foolish and ill-informed whim. She has things to do, and with Justinia’s ashes barely cold, this kind of compassion is a weakness she cannot afford.

That said, she truly doesn’t wish to hurt her. It’s clearly taken the poor thing a great deal of courage to seek her out, to ask for help; her nervousness is proof enough that talking to people is difficult enough in itself, but knowing what she does about the poor girl’s past, it must be doubly unpleasant to find herself in need of assistance. It is the nature of people like her, hardened and broken on the streets, to depend only on themselves, and so it follows that she must be truly worried about this, that she would potentially embarrass herself in such a manner for fear of what might happen if she doesn’t.

So, yes, Leliana allows herself the luxury of a moment to think things through, to consider her response carefully. It would not do to break the poor girl’s spirit when she’s scarcely been here a week, would it?

A question, then, to soften the blow, and she is careful to inject just the right amount of disbelief into exactly the right syllables. “Just to clarify, if you will: Josephine told you that _I_ was the person to approach with this matter, yes?”

“Uh huh.” She nods about a dozen times, eager and enthusiastic as a puppy. “Said you’re the secrety spy-king type, all hidden and cloak-and-dagger and whatever. Said you know like a hundred different ways to kill a man.” She bares her teeth again, that trapped-animal grin. “So, you gonna help me do all that too, or not?”

“I…” Leliana sighs, allows her features to show just a hint of regret, allows the expression to sink in before cementing it with words. “I’m sorry, Sera, but you were misinformed. Not intentionally, I’m sure…”

She trails off quite deliberately there, because of course it’s a bald-faced lie; Josie is too clever, too crafty, and she clearly knew what she was doing in sending Sera here. Ambassador Montilyet never does anything but accident; this, Leliana knows all too well, though now is hardly the time to dwell on it. Regardless, though, she makes a mental note to have a very long and very _intimate_ discussion with Josephine on the subject as soon as their duties permit.

“You what?” Sera huffs, apparently taking the words at face-value.

Leliana shrugs, puts on a diplomatic face, or as close an approximation of one as she’s capable of. “I’m sure our ambassador simply assumed you wanted advice in matters of espionage or subterfuge. But this? No, no, I’m afraid not. I am no assassin, Sera, and I—”

“Don’t need a frigging assassin,” Sera mutters, scowling like a particularly petulant child. “Not into kinky shit like that.”

“Excuse me?”

Sera shakes her head, as though afraid of getting sidetracked if she indulges such thoughts for too long. “Doesn’t matter. Whatever. Point is, not after all that fancy whatever. Just need to learn how to frigging stab shit. You know?”

Leliana closes her eyes for a moment, massages her temples. “I understand that, Sera, yes. But the fact remains that you are asking the wrong person. My skills are the same as yours, more or less. Like you, I’m at home with a bow, not a blade.”

“Course you are. Anyone with a frigging brain in their head would be. Just makes sense.” Leliana chuckles at the simplification, accurate though it is, and Sera takes that as encouragement to press on. “Don’t matter, though, does it? You _know_ , yeah? Don’t got to be a frigging big-hat expert to know how to get stuff done. And you… heard you used to play. Like _play_ , you know what I mean?” She raises both eyebrows impossibly high, and if she wasn’t so unnerved by the keenness of the observation Leliana might almost be a little amused. “Know your type, yeah. Know you’ve got skills. Don’t need to like them to have them, sure… but we both know you have them. So don’t you go spouting piss about how you don’t know shite, yeah? Say no if you like — whatever, right? — but don’t frigging bullshit me.”

Leliana shakes her head, not sure whether to be more impressed by her astuteness or affronted by her bluntness. “Well, now…” she says. “Aren’t we well-informed?”

Sera grins, flushes a little. “Learn a lot from your Lady Ruffles, innit? You know, long as you’re not wasting your time listening to the shite that comes out of her mouth.”

Leliana can’t help herself; she laughs. “Well, I can certainly see why the Herald took you on.”

A compliment is a rare thing from her these days, and Sera seems to recognise that; her grin widens, loses a little of its animal wildness, cheeks cracking into dimples. “Yeah?”

“Certainly.” She sighs, then, heavy and pointed, lets Sera know that the situation hasn’t changed. “But I’m afraid you’ll still have to look elsewhere. I am… I have a great many duties to attend, and I can’t afford to be distracted at the moment. I have agents in every corner of Thedas, all waiting on my instruction. To lose focus for even an instant could mean their deaths, or the deaths of others. It could mean…” She feels the panic rising up in her, tastes blood in her mouth, remembers her own death, tries not to think of Justinia’s. “No, no, no. I cannot. There is too much at stake, too much to do. I can’t simply drop everything on a silly whim. I can’t…”

“Uh _huh_.” Sera stares at her for a long, uncomfortable moment. “Wasn’t asking for a frigging lifetime commitment, there, Knifey.”

“Is that really necessary?” She’s referring to the nickname, not the sarcasm, though frankly the sarcasm could stand to be taken down a notch or two as well.

“Better than Scary Secrety Spy-King, innit?”

“That’s a matter for debate.” She shrugs it off, though, refuses to be goaded. “But not for now. I’m sorry, Sera, but the situation is what it is. However, if you’re truly set on this, I could put your name forward to one of my scouts? I have several who specialise in melee combat, and—”

“Pfft. Could’ve done that myself if I wanted to, yeah? Like it’s so frigging hard to find some tit with free time on their hands who likes shoving knives into people…” She hugs herself, shivering in the chilly air; for the first time, Leliana notes her clothing, threadbare and tattered, and wonders how she isn’t freezing. “Wanted _you_ , yeah? Wanted to learn proper like, from someone who…” She trails off, gives a sharp little shrug. “Whatever, I guess. I’ll just figure it out by myself. Can’t be too hard, right? Like arrows, only, you know… not.”

Leliana coughs, a delicate if futile attempt to mask the laugh that’s tickling in her throat. “Precisely like that, yes.”

“Right.” She’s trying a little too hard to be cheerful, though, and of course Leliana sees through the smile as clearly as she sees through the windows of the chantry, sees through to the darkness within, the empty space where faith and hope used to dwell. “Right. Well. Thanks for… well, for not laughing in my face, I guess. Pretty much the only one who hasn’t, so…” She swallows. “Yeah.”

Leliana frowns. Although the conversation is all but over, still Sera looks miserable and nervous, as though some part of her is still waiting for exactly that, for Leliana to turn around and laugh in her face, to treat her like the ‘daft idiot’ she seems to see in herself. A sad thought, that she would expect such a thing even from someone who has shown nothing but patience until this point, and it tugs at the half-forgotten places within her.

“I wouldn’t do that,” she says quietly. “There is nothing to laugh at in someone seeking to better themselves, no?”

“Whatever,” Sera mutters, but she’s blushing.

Leliana smiles, touches her arm. “Anyway. Should you require anything else, I…”

“Right. Yeah. Sure.” She turns, and Leliana traces the lines of her clothing, memorises every rip, every tear, every hole. “Thanks anyway, yeah?”

She’s gone, then, and though Leliana did not take her eyes off her for more than a second, still she finds herself at a loss to fathom how she disappeared so quickly and so completely. Sleight of hand, perhaps, or a trick of her own thoughts; she is still distracted, it seems, as she has been for quite some time. A mistake on her part, and one that might cost rather more than a moment’s embarrassment in a different situation.

Such a thing will not do. The Inquisition is still so fragile; it is a newborn, mewling and helpless, and Leliana is one of a select few tasked with keeping it alive in its formative first weeks. She can’t afford to be distracted, can’t afford to behave like this; her words to Sera were not an excuse, oh no, and it pains her to think of the look on her face, the way she seemed for a moment to look through her, to see all the parts of Leliana that were perhaps not quite as involved in the conversation as they should have been, the way she seemed somehow to know that she was at times thinking of other things. And if Sera can see the weakness in her, new and weak and asking for help, then clearly it must be eliminated.

She cannot afford this. The Inquisition cannot afford it. Too much depends on her. _Too much…_

She closes her eyes, turns back around. A few minutes more, that is all, and she will return to her duties, refreshed and revitalised and, most importantly, focused. She has not rested well, not since the Conclave, and she needs a moment to catch her breath, a moment without interruptions, without chaotic young elves running around and asking for training in talents Leliana has never possessed. She needs a moment to quiet her head, to still the thoughts that trouble her. She needs a moment that is hers and hers alone.

She breathes deeply, bows her head.

“ _Maker, my enemies are abundant_ …”

—

A few minutes, that is all. And yet somehow, when she opens her eyes again, the sun is setting.

Leliana blinks against the flare, the brightness reflecting off the surface as it descends over the chantry, a flash of discomfort, of blinding dazzling light, and then it fades. It takes a moment, longer than she’d ever admit, for the world to come into focus around her, for her eyes and her thoughts to adjust, and longer still for her to accept the difference between the moment she wanted and the one she got.

“Ah, you return to us at last!”

It is, of course, Josephine, standing behind her with a smile in her voice. Leliana snorts, annoyed, but does not send her away; no doubt Josie will see that as a victory in itself. And yes, when she finally brings herself to turn around and face her, she finds that she is smirking.

“How long have you been hovering?” she asks. “Don’t you have more important things to do?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Josie says.

It’s not an accusation, but Leliana bristles just the same, rather more annoyed with herself for allowing such a thing to happen than with Josephine for pointing it out; _a few minutes,_ she promised herself, yet here she is hours later. “Touché,” she sighs, and bows her head a little lower.

Josephine softens ever so slightly, not simply her smile but her voice as well. “I hear you turned away the Inquisition’s newest member?”

It takes Leliana a few moments to remember what she’s talking about. Another lapse, she thinks. _Inexcusable_. “You mean Sera, of course.”

“I do indeed.” She sighs as well, and the smile gives way to sorrow and disappointment. “Honestly, Leliana, why would you do such a thing? Do you not want the poor girl to feel welcome among us? Do you not want her to feel as though she can come to us with her problems?”

Leliana rolls her eyes. “And here I thought that was your job, _Ambassador_ , not mine.”

It’s entirely too predictable, the way Josephine throws up her hands, but it amuses her just the same. “The responsibility lies with all of us, Leliana! We cannot expect the Inquisition to thrive if we do not nurture it! All of us! Together! You should know that. You, of all people…” She shakes her head, looks Leliana directly in the eye, as though seeing through all the armour, the hooded shadows, every barrier that Leliana has put up to prevent such a thing. “Andraste preserve us! I know that the idea of engaging with people intimidates you… and, well, who can blame you after the—”

“Josephine.”

“Yes. Well. No matter. You know as well as I do why you have turned inwards. You do not need me to explain it, I’m sure. But _this_? This was supposed to be…”

She cuts herself off quickly, realising that she’s given herself away, but Leliana is too fast, and she doesn’t allow the moment to slip away unchallenged.

“Oh?” she says. “And what, exactly, was it ‘supposed to be’?”

She’s wearing the same grin she saw on Sera’s face, that bared-teeth animal grin, the one that is rather more fire than friendship. Josephine, it seems, notices it as well, because she flushes and takes a long, cautious step back.

“I… that is, it…”

“Oh, no you don’t.” Leliana isn’t angry, not exactly, but she doesn’t take kindly to being duped, and all the more so by a supposedly trusted friend. She will not allow such a thing. Never again. “Explain yourself. Because I am at a loss to understand how you, of all people, could have possibly misinterpreted what she wanted. _‘Speak with Sister Nightingale, she can help you’_. As though you didn’t even hear what she was asking!”

Josephine grimaces. “I heard,” she admits. “I simply thought you might…”

“Please. _Knives_ , Josephine! You know as well as I do that I’ve not picked up a blade of that sort in years. You know as well as I do that I could not possibly offer what she’s after. Yet still you sent her to me, as though you truly believed I was the person to speak with about such things! As though I could ever be.”

Josephine holds up a hand, silencing her as effectively now as ever; she has always been rather too good at that. “You do possess the skills she wants, Leliana,” she says, so reasonable and rational that Leliana almost wants to scream. “That you have chosen not to use them is your affair.”

“ _My_ affair, yes. Not yours. It’s not your place to bring such things into the present without my permission. And it is certainly not your place to make promises on my behalf to hapless urchins who can scarcely string a sentence together. By the Maker, Josie, if you’d seen her face when I turned her away!”

Josephine smiles. It is sad this time, but warm as well. “And why did you?”

“You know perfectly well why I did it.” They have played this game, the two of them, more times than either can count, and Josephine should really know better than to expect Leliana to concede so much as an inch. “I am _busy_ , Josie. I cannot afford such a distraction. The _Inquisition_ cannot afford such a distraction. We are still too new, too—”

“Too fragile,” Josephine finishes for her, and her smile flickers ever so slightly, the sorrow overpowering the warmth, all but extinguishing it in the heartbeat before it flares up again.

Leliana ignores the look on her face, and does not yield. “Exactly. We don’t have time to play silly games with silly girls.”

“Oh, Leliana. Is that truly all you see? A young woman comes to you, seeks your talents, seeks to better her own, and you would reduce her to a ‘silly girl’?” Leliana flushes; in truth, she doesn’t see it that way at all, but of course she won’t let Josephine see that. “No. My sister Yvette is a ‘silly girl’. This young woman… she is one of ours. She is part of the Inquisition, no matter your feelings, and she should be treated as such.”

“She is headstrong and impatient, and she uses language that would make Divine Justinia cry to the Maker for penance.”

“I seem to recall you yourself using similar such words yourself on more than one occasion,” Josephine quips. “Given precisely the right amount of peach brandy, you can be quite scandalous.”

The reminder stings more than she anticipates. A simpler time, yes, and a more innocent one, a time when she would have made the Divine blush to the roots of her hair. A more innocent Leliana as well, in so many painful ways, and one that she knows Josephine remembers with the kind of fondness that runs soul-deep, heart-deep. Ah, but it is easy for Josie to romanticise such things, isn’t it? It is, after all, always so much easier for those who are not forced to change, those who can only watch from behind their ideals and romances as their loved ones lose the light that kept them young, as the world snuffs it out.

It is enviable, the way Josephine sees her, enviable that she has that luxury, that she can look back and see an old friend, a young Leliana, that she can look back on those things with fondness while Leliana herself must remember all the terrible experiences that forced her to become something else.

But, oh, it is hard not to ache for those days when Josie’s standing there in front of her, hard not to look back fondly on wine-flushed cheeks and laughter that went on a little too long, blaming the drink and the moon for ‘fleeting indiscretions’ that weren’t truly fleeting at all. Yes, there is a part of her that misses those moments, but for her they are so far away that they might as well have happened to someone else entirely.

“Those days are gone,” she says aloud, biting down on the bitterness. “As you well know.”

“Alas, I do. But that does not mean they must remain that way.” The smile dissolves completely, replaced by a broken sort of compassion, a rare crack in the ambassador’s perfect mask. “Leliana, I worry about you. You have changed so much, _become_ so much, and not all of it good. You are closed-off, calloused, even cruel. You are… you are _frightening_ , Leliana.”

Leliana huffs a humourless laugh. “You exaggerate, as usual.”

“I do not! Do you know, when I mentioned your name to Sera, she turned so pale I thought she might faint! _‘The scary one’_ , she called you. _‘The scary one’_ , and she was as white as a sheet! That is not the Leliana I remember…”

“The Leliana you remember had Divine Justinia and the Light of the Maker to guide her. She had her faith, her purpose. She had…” She shakes her head. “She had a great many things that I do not.”

Josephine sighs again. “I know the Divine’s death has shaken you…”

“Shaken me? Yes, it has shaken me! Twice now — _twice_ , Josephine! — I have visited the Temple of Sacred Ashes only to see death and destruction rained down on me. First my own — and to this day I do not know how I survived, or why, only that I still feel the pain with every breath I take — and now Justinia’s as well. That temple should be the holiest of places, sacred and revered. It should be a _haven_ , Josie, like this damned village. But it’s not, is it? It’s not, and all it ever brought me is death and pain.”

“The temple is gone,” Josephine reminds her, soft but serious. “But you are not. You _survived_ , Leliana. Twice, the Maker spared you. Twice, He brought you back to us. Would you squander that life now that it’s been granted again, allow yourself to waste away in bitterness and resentment? I know the light in you, Leliana. I know the joy and compassion you once shared so freely, the faith that kept you strong, that kept you _kind_. Those things are still in you, I know they are. If you’d only—”

“No.”

Josephine steps forward, closes the space between them as though it were nothing at all, and takes Leliana by the hands so tenderly it almost hurts. Leliana’s gloves are thick and heavy, as much for moments like this as for the more dangerous elements of her job, and it is by intention that she can’t feel Josie’s skin against hers as she once did. She remembers it, though, the smoothness and the scent of Antivan oils, the soft caresses, delicate fingertips tracing the lines of her palms, her knuckles. She remembers, yes, and whether that truly is enough or not, it has to be. For both of them, it has to be… but, oh, the barriers between them, the cracked leather and chainmail and all the ways that time has dulled her senses… oh, they do nothing to ease the ache in her chest.

“There is a great deal of you in Sera,” Josephine says gently. “The old Leliana… or perhaps I should say the young one. She is just as exuberant as you once were, and just as vibrant. And perhaps…” She turns away, just a little, just enough that shadows fall across her eyes. “Perhaps she is just as damaged, as well, in her own way. She struggles, Leliana, just as you do. She has questions, doubts, hurts and fears, and…” She squeezes her hands, tightly enough that Leliana feels it even through her gloves. “The two of you…”

“I don’t have the time, Josie.” Her voice is hard, though she knows Josephine can feel that the rest of her is not. “You know that perfectly well.”

“And _you_ know that this is simply not true. The Inquisition will not fall apart if you step away from this tent for a few hours a day. Haven will not be swallowed by the Breach if you take a little time away from your duties once in a while, if you spare a few minutes to help a soul in need. We will not…” Her voice breaks, a moment as rare as the broken look on her face, the cracks in her ambassador’s mask. “We will not _die_ , Leliana, simply because you turned your back for a second.”

Leliana flinches, so violently that she allows Josephine to see it. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Josephine must see how far she has overstepped the line, must see that Leliana’s restraint is hanging on by a thread; she is as well-trained in these things as Leliana herself, and it is simply not possible that she would have missed the warning signs. Not possible, no, and yet still she insists on pushing. Were she anyone else, she would be dead where she stands, or poisoned by daybreak… but, ah, she is still Josie, and of everyone in the world, Leliana will never raise a hand against her.

“Are you certain?” Josephine demands. “I may lack your talents at the Game, but I am a diplomat by trade, am I not? To say nothing of our friendship… our…” She shakes her head, stops herself before she can make it into something more, something closer to the truth, before she steers them both too close to the past and loses Leliana completely. “I know more than you give me credit for, Leliana. And I know that this would be good for you. If you were not so stubborn, so wilful… if you were not so _afraid_.”

Leliana glares at her, affronted. “I am not afraid of anything.”

“Ah, yes. My mistake.” Her voice is dripping with sarcasm. “And I suppose that ‘silly girl’ you dismiss so readily is not afraid of anything either?”

“I wouldn’t know.” But, no, her voice gives her away, too sharp and too quick, and of course Josephine sees it.

She shakes her head, no doubt more disgusted with the pitiful effort than the words themselves. “For a start, she is afraid of _you_. Would that not be a good place to begin?”

“Begin what?” Leliana huffs. “I have already told you—”

“Leliana, please! The Inquisition will never thrive if there is dissension even among its members. That there are already murmurs circulating about you… that even our newest arrivals begin trembling merely at the mention of your name… this is not conducive to a healthy organisation. Even you must accept this. Whether you would care to admit it or not, you know it to be true.” Leliana opens her mouth to counter, but of course Josephine doesn’t allow her an opening; diplomat’s tactics, sharpened to pinpoint precision, and it stings to find them used against her. “I know what you’re going to say. _‘A spymaster must be secretive, Josie! A spymaster cannot be too approachable, Josie!’_. And perhaps a part of you truly believes that as well. Beneath the pain and the grief and everything else you have seen and endured… I don’t know. Perhaps a part of you does. But I do not.”

“It is not for you to—”

“It is for all of us!” It’s as close to an explosion as Josephine has ever gotten, an outburst that turns a few heads from some distance away. She flushes slightly, acknowledges the mis-step, and when she continues it is in a markedly lower voice. “It is for _all of us_ , Leliana, to govern each other. We do not work in isolation, each of us alone with only our own motivations and feelings to consider. The Inquisition could not function under such conditions; we would fall into chaos in a matter of hours.”

Leliana sighs. The point is a good one, though of course she’ll never admit it aloud. Given the mood she’s in right now, Josephine would take it as a victory, leap on the momentary concession and bleed Leliana’s resolve dry. That, of course, she cannot allow, and so, valid or not, she does not acknowledge the point at all. Better, she decides, to simply huff and scowl, to hide beneath her hood and wait for Josie to give up on this fruitless discussion and leave her alone.

But, of course, Josie does no such thing. She is, by all accounts, too good at what she does; ironic, Leliana thinks, that the very thing that makes her a perfect match for the fledgling Inquisition is what makes her infuriating in moments like this. She senses the weakness in Leliana as surely as she’d sense the same in any Orlesian duke, any Fereldan lord, in anyone at all. The smile is back in a heartbeat, as perfect and precise as ever, and when she releases Leliana’s hands she doesn’t even pretend not to notice the way her fingers twitch.

“Give Sera what she wants,” she says, and it is no longer a suggestion. An order, or something like one, from the Inquisition’s ambassador. “For her sake, and for yours. For the Inquisition as well, if you must have it that way, if that is what’s required for you to accept this. Give her what she wants: teach her how to wield a knife, a dagger, a blade instead of a bow. Teach her, and do not…” Her voice cracks again, just a little. “Do not deny yourself the chance to make a friend, Leliana, simply because you are afraid of losing the few you already have.”

“This is not about friendship,” Leliana snaps, horrified beyond words by the very idea.

“Oh?” Her eyes are sparkling, amusement coloured by something deeper. “Are you quite certain?”

“I…”

But, of course, they both know she cannot answer, cannot say anything with any degree of certainty; that’s not part of her problem, no? The uncertainty, the lack of divine guidance, the hollow feeling she gets when she searches the heavens and finds only the Breach? Ah, yes, Josie is an expert at what she does. _‘Are you quite certain, Leliana?’_ she asks, because she already knows.

“As I thought,” Josephine says, and of course she doesn’t need to say more. They both know she’s won this round.

Leliana closes her eyes, surrenders with a sigh, and comforts herself that she is only giving in so easily because the alternative is talking this through for the rest of the night. “Very well,” she says, the concession spoken like a threat. “I will… speak to her. Anything more, I can’t promise.”

Josephine’s smile softens, shifts into something new; it loses the edge, that telltale tic that says _ambassador_ and _diplomat_ , takes on a kind of sweetness, a sincerity; it is the kind of smile that might melt the old young-Leliana’s heart, that might melt other parts of her as well, the kind of smile that warms them both with echoes of times gone by. It says a lot, a smile like that, and perhaps it is not only Leliana who has changed a little after all. Perhaps she is not the only one who spends her days covering up the parts of herself that are not as steady or as light as they once were. Perhaps Josephine has her own reasons for wearing the mask she does. Perhaps.

“That’s all I ask,” she says, and Leliana almost believes her.

She closes her eyes when Josephine turns to leave, blocks out the memory of that smile, her voice, the hazy echoes of those long-dead days, blocks out the sight of her back, shoulders slumped as she walks away, head bowed in a way she would never allow in front of anyone else, blocks out the sunset, the shadows spreading like spiderwebs over the chantry’s roof, the walls, the windows, blocks out the way her heart feels darker and colder as well, shadowed by so much more than the lack of light.

_Oh, Josie,_ she thinks. _You have no idea what you ask._

—


	2. Chapter 2

—

She waits until the morning.

The night is long, exhausting in itself, and of course she doesn’t sleep at all. This is nothing new in that; in truth, she hasn’t slept since long before the Conclave. She was nervous, the preparations extensive, and of course Cassandra’s endless diatribes and ceaseless bickering with Varric did little to make it easier. Tensions were high for a thousand reasons, even before they had any reason to be, and it was certainly not conducive to a good night’s rest.

Leliana remembers how tired she was that fateful morning, exhausted to the point of delirium, of finding everything utterly hilarious; she remembers how Cassandra chided her for giggling over breakfast, remembers that baleful look and her voice getting high and tight as she reminded her for the hundredth time that the Conclave was a _serious_ event.

Ah, yes, serious indeed. The delirium ended very quickly, of course, and the hilarity far quicker, but the exhaustion still lingers. Leliana can’t even close her eyes any more without seeing the explosion, imagining the screams from the temple, remembering her own a decade earlier, reliving over and over again the endless cycle of history repeating itself. Death everywhere, and again all she could do was watch, helpless and hopeless, choking on pain and terror as her heart stopped, as it was ripped out of her — figuratively this time, yet still somehow every bit as painful — and wonder, yet again, if this would be the last time.

This time, at least, Leliana was unharmed. She and Cassandra both, delayed by fortune or providence or some other unseen force. Delayed, unharmed, _alive_ once again, but that did not lessen the pain at all, did not make it any less real, any less horrific or unbearable. This time, she did not die, but the trauma was just as potent this time around, and she felt the pain just as profoundly when she fell to her knees in the dirt and the dust and the bones, and howled to the heavens, to Andraste or to the Maker, to anyone who could hear, anyone at all who might have some answer, some explanation. _Why her? Why Justinia? If you wanted a life so desperately, you could have taken mine! You did it once, why not again?_

She truly believed it, too. And perhaps, yes, there is a part of her that still does. Terrible, she knows, and all the more so given what she needs to accomplish in Justinia’s stead. But, oh, she is nothing next to her; Justinia had so much to give, so much life and beauty and passion within her, and Leliana is jaded and angry and lost. Justinia, more than anyone else Leliana has ever met, deserved to live. She was everything that Leliana was not, everything she will never be.

In truth, she supposes, she has never truly recovered from her last time at the temple; a decade gone now, yet still the memories haunt her, still she feels it right down to her bones, down to her soul, down to every last part of her still capable of feeling anything at all. The so-called Hero of Ferelden, the blow that laid her to the ground, the moment the screams died and the moment they started up again, the moment she awoke howling and hurting and wondering why.

The Maker saved her then. He brought her to Justinia’s side, to the _Divine_ ’s side, helped her to find a purpose again, find a new breed of faith to pave over the places where the old was cracked and broken. The Hero of Ferelden was no hero at all, not to Leliana, but Justinia was everything she needed, everything she didn’t even realise she needed. Her body grew strong again, her faith stronger, and for a time she was content. For a time, however brief, she had purpose. The world was whole again, yes, though she never quite learned to forgive, never quite stopped shuddering every time someone mentioned the Hero’s name.

And then, oh yes, the Conclave. And then, again, Leliana found her life stripped away from her, her soul torn asunder. That place again, the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and _again_ it took everything she knew, everything that mattered to her. Again, now, she finds herself lost. Again, yes, her faith is faltering, her prayers silent and unanswered. Again, she finds herself back where she was, but this time there will be no Divine intervention to save her from herself.

 _Justinia_. Of every soul in Thedas, every worthless foolish creature, every so-called Hero who turns their back on all that mattered, every worthless Bard who squanders her life in faithlessness, of everyone in the world, why _her_? Why save someone so far beyond hope, _Leliana_ , only to slay the Divine in her place?

It has kept her awake every night, that question.

Tonight is no exception, of course, but she did not expect it to be. Josie has given her a great deal to think about, yes, but it is not enough to drive those questions out of her head, not enough to wear her down. She does not sleep; at this point, she doesn’t even try, but she spends a great deal of time thinking, and when dawn breaks, sunlight creeping along the stone walls of the chantry, she finds that the light is so much more exhausting than the darkness.

But, ah, she can’t dwell on such things now. She has a promise to keep, if only because she knows that Josie will hunt her down if she does not.

It is not an easy thing to do; even the simple act of finding the damned elf is a seemingly impossible task. No doubt she prefers it that way, clinging to the element of surprise like a child to a favourite blanket, but it doesn’t exactly endear Leliana to the idea of helping her.

She searches the tavern first, having learned from a dozen or more reliable sources that the girl has effectively made the place her home. It is an odd choice, though hardly an extraordinary one; Sera does not seem the type to settle down in her allocated quarters, to stare at the wall and wait for the sun to rise, no more than Leliana herself is.

In that, at least, perhaps Josephine has a point; Leliana has no reason to presume that Sera does not sleep well here in Haven, and yet some part of her knows it to be true. There is no logic, no reason, she simply _knows_. It is a minor thing, true, but it resonates just the same, making her feel slightly less alone in her enforced insomnia. In any event, it stands to reason that someone as youthful and exuberant as Sera would seek out like-minded companionship in the twilight hours, troubled troublemakers like herself, looking to drown their sorrows or drown their friends.

As early as the hour is when Leliana wanders in, it’s no surprise that the tavern is all but abandoned. The bartender, Flissa, is awake, albeit a little more subdued than usual, but beyond that the place is empty. She’s wiping down the surfaces, righting furniture, generally making the place presentable after last night’s revelry. It is sad, Leliana thinks, to find the place in such a state, to find _Flissa_ in such a state; there has been so much tragedy, so much pain, and far too many have turned to carousing and over-indulgence to balm their suffering, desperate to become numb and blind to everything that has happened, everything that is still happening. Perhaps long ago, Leliana would have joined them. Longer still, perhaps she might even have been the one to start it.

For now, though, she simply offers Flissa a sympathetic smile, and asks if she knows where one would find Sera.

“Sera?” Flissa echoes, frowning; Leliana watches her face as she tries to match a face to the name. “Little bit of a thing with patched-up clothes, and a temper to match? Gives you a black eye if you call her ‘elven’?”

The description is certainly accurate, and Leliana laughs. “I believe so, yes. She is, ah, rather new, and I would speak with her.”

“Not in her quarters, I take it?” Flissa asks, and shrugs. “Aye, then Maker only knows where she’s stumbled off to. Probably better off staying that way, if you ask me. After the amount she put away last night, you’ll not want that one awake before mid-afternoon. Not if you know what’s good for you.”

Leliana sighs, shakes her head. “If I knew what was good for me, I doubt I’d be asking the question in the first place.”

She double-checks Sera’s quarters as well, just to be sure, though she knows before she even opens the door that she’ll find the place empty. It’s little more than a box, a tiny room with a bare-looking bed, standard-issue for the newer recruits. It’s hardly a welcoming space, though from what Leliana knows of Sera she rather doubts the modesty would upset her any; no doubt she lived in far worse, on the rare days when she had a room to live in at all. There is no good reason why she wouldn’t be here, so Leliana concludes that she simply got lost on her way back from the tavern, and stumbled into a ditch.

Somewhat worrying, the ditches also turn up empty.

It is sheer aggravation that inspires her to keep searching after that; in the first, Josephine would never let her hear the end of it if she gave up, but far more than that she will not allow it to be said that her wasted time was… well, a waste of time. It is a matter of principle now, a need to find Sera if only to tell her how much trouble she’s caused by disappearing as she has. A point of pride, perhaps, and one of common sense.

What would have happened, for example, if the Herald had needed her? If there had been a call to arms? If any one of a thousand things had taken place? What would have happened if someone had attacked the village, if they’d needed to count all heads? A thousand possible scenarios flash through her mind, each one more horrific, more cataclysmic than the last. A thousand possible scenarios, yes and they all end with Sera lost and alone and dying.

 _Dying,_ she thinks, and gazes up at the chantry. _It always ends with someone dying._

The chantry. Ah, yes. Where else would the little monster drag her? Not simply Sera, though; where else would dear scheming Josephine make a point of corralling her old and jaded friend?

Leliana’s relationship with Haven’s chantry is an uncomfortable one, to say the least, and it is no secret to those who know her best. Ironic, in a sad sort of way, given that her position as spymaster necessitates her spending a great deal of time in there. The chantry is, to all intents and purposes, the only truly functional building in Haven, or at least the only one suited to the Inquisition’s needs, and so much of their work takes place within its walls. That is unavoidable, but of course it can’t have escaped Josie’s keen eye that Leliana is not comfortable there, that this place that was once the source of everything she held dear now makes her shudder.

She works carefully when she must work there. She keeps her eye on the war table when they gather round, marking out the map and tracing its lines, stares at the walls when they are done, turns her attention to whatever simple thing she can find, anything that does not display the heraldry of the Chantry, that does not whisper the Divine’s name in mocking echoes and hollow prayers. She works carefully when she must, oh yes, and as soon as their task is complete she rushes back outside as fast as she can. Back, yes, back into the biting cold, back to her duties, back to the place where she can close her eyes and pretend she never set foot inside that hollow hallowed place.

Now, again, she does set foot in there. Not to work, not this time. Not to keep her head down as she strolls to the back room, the war table and Inquisition business. None of that, oh no; she is here to prove a point, to prove to Josephine, and perhaps to herself, that she is not afraid of this place.

It is quite the challenge, keeping her eye averted from all the things that once gave her faith. The statues of Andraste, the hushed whispers of the Chantry sisters, the early morning sunlight shimmering in through the windows; she does not look at any of them, does not trust herself to see or hear or notice. It is a hard thing to avoid all those things, to keep her eyes on the floor, keep her voice pitched with reverence even as it cracks, to call Sera’s name instead of Andraste’s, instead of the Maker’s.

“I believe you will find her downstairs,” Josephine offers.

She doesn’t raise her voice, of course, but it carries with all the clarity of a bell, ringing out from the cupboard of a room she’s claimed for herself, her so-called office. Leliana grunts her acknowledgement but doesn’t look up. She’s already annoyed by all of this, and she doesn’t trust herself not to wipe that self-satisfied diplomat’s smile right off Josephine’s face.

 _‘I believe you will find her downstairs,’_ she says, but all Leliana hears is, _‘I knew I could get you in here.’_

—

Infuriatingly, she does find Sera downstairs.

The chantry’s underbelly isn’t much to look at; it’s little more than a dank, dimly-lit corridor and a handful of unused cells, space set aside for the kinds of prisoners that Leliana hopes they’ll never have to hold. A few moth-eaten books and trinkets, some dusty boxes filled with long-forgotten bits and pieces, a couple of sputtering wall-torches, and that’s all. It’s an odd choice, to be sure; given its present state there’s no reason at all for anyone to be down here at all. And yet, there she is, _Sera_ , as though this is the most comfortable spot she could imagine.

Then again, given her particular history, maybe it was a kind of instinct that brought her here. Sera is little more than a street rat, and Leliana supposes there might be some part of her that sought something familiar; inebriated and not really thinking clearly, it stands to reason that she’d seek out a place like this, dirty and dark and, most importantly, empty. It is difficult, Leliana knows, to silence the voices of the past; in her case, the memories of happier times in chantries just like this, and in Sera’s that ever-present need for a safe little corner to hide in.

She’s lying face-down on the floor, naked from the waist up, tunic rolled up to serve as a makeshift pillow; evidently, Flissa wasn’t exaggerating when she mentioned how much she had to drink, and for a moment or two Leliana finds that she doesn’t know whether to laugh or be horrified; it’s been years since she allowed herself to lose control like this, to drink so much and with such abandon that she’d wake up half-naked on the floor of a dungeon with little to no memory of how she got there… and yet, for all her quiet amusement, there remains even now a part of her that can’t help thinking, _this is supposed to be the Maker’s sanctuary_.

“Sera?”

Somewhat predictably, Sera lets out a deafening snore but otherwise does not stir. Leliana sighs, all amusement gone in a heartbeat, and leans over her. It’s probably something of a miracle in itself that she has not yet choked on her own saliva, or worse; what in the world could have possessed the Herald to welcome someone like this into the Inquisition’s ranks? A few months down the line, perhaps, when everything is settled and neatly in place, but now? The Inquisition is fragile, delicate, and should word get out about this… well, what little chance they might have of being taken seriously would all but evaporate in less than the time it would take to get the words out.

“Sera!”

It comes out rather more sharply than she intended, all those worried thoughts surging to the surface, but it has the desired effect just the same: Sera snorts, groans, and limps her way back to consciousness.

“…ohh, _Maker_ …”

Leliana grimaces. “You should not say such things in a chantry…” she chides, because it is easier to say that than to let Sera see the parts of her that doubt. “Sera, what in the—”

“…not so loud…”

Her voice is hoarse, almost incomprehensible, and she’s struggling even just to lift her head. Her limbs are shaking, straining as she tries to support herself, bracing on her palms, fingers digging into the dirt floor; it’s hard to tell whether this is the after-effects of last night’s indulgence, or if she’s simply still inebriated, and Leliana bites her tongue to keep from snapping off a quip.

Honestly, it’s all she can do not to just turn around and leave the silly thing alone with her suffering. That would be the prudent option, certainly, but she knows all too well that Josephine is waiting upstairs, no doubt completely aware of all this, and itching for a chance to smirk and say _‘I told you so’_ the instant Leliana backs out. No doubt she _expects_ such a thing, even, and of course Leliana will not allow it. Josie may think she knows her mind, and perhaps she does, but as usual she underestimates her stubbornness, her insistence on always seeing a job done.

So, yes, she remains. She crouches awkwardly at Sera’s side, not quite sure whether she wants to reach out and offer some measure of support, or if she wants to chasten her with a thwack on the back. She settles for neither, then, letting her hand drift uselessly into the space between them.

“Sera,” she says again, lowering her voice. “What in the world are you doing down here? Of all places…”

“Nn…” Apparently, this is as erudite as she’s capable of right now. In truth, it’s not that far distant from yesterday’s babbling. “… _shite_ …”

She squeezes her eyes shut, presses a hand to her mouth, white-knuckled and urgent. She’s making a noble attempt of it, breathing through her nose and holding herself steady, but Leliana has been trained her whole life to foresee incidents like this; she knows a lost cause when she sees one, and she scrambles swiftly back to a safe distance.

“Ah, yes… perhaps we should discuss this another time?”

Sera, of course, is too far gone to muster a reply. She simply chokes out another miserable-sounding _“shite…”_ then promptly pitches forwards, vomiting noisily.

Leliana turns away, massaging her temples, and distracts herself with visions of dearest Josie waking up with a blade in her pillow, or perhaps the head removed from one of her favourite dolls (the ones she thinks no-one knows about). Bloodless, yes, and relatively harmless, but it will send a very clear message. Because, yes, she _will_ pay for this. Oh, how she will pay.

As soon as she’s finished, Sera starts swearing again. She’s still hoarse and choked, but at least she’s vaguely comprehensible this time; not helpful by any means, but comprehensible just the same, and Leliana silently marvels at her lexicon of colourful curses. Impressive, in its own way; she can scarcely make a cohesive sentence out of common words, but in a situation like this she puts even Leliana’s considerable vocabulary to shame.

“Shit, crap, arse, piss, _shite_ …” The longer she goes on, the more the discomfort seems to give way to panic, to a slowly-rising tidal wave of horror; Leliana wonders what shameful deeds from last night are beginning to manifest in her foggy memory. “Ohh, no. No, no, no. Arse, shite, crap…”

“Calm yourself,” Leliana says, as kindly as she can. She turns back with some reluctance, finds Sera still kneeling in the dirt, pale and wretched and clutching her head. “Perhaps you’ll think twice next time before over-indulging to such a degree, yes?”

Sera doesn’t respond, still locked up in her litany of curses; she continues to groan and whine for a good few minutes, and even then she doesn’t seem to fully exhaust her vocabulary of curses. Perhaps that’s for the best, though; on no fewer than three occasions, she looks as though she’s about to start retching again, leaning forward and breathing hard, but she holds herself in check seemingly by pure force of will. Leliana is grateful for that; frankly, once was bad enough.

At long last, Sera gets enough control over herself to speak properly, or at least attempt such a thing, and when she does she sounds so utterly pitiful that Leliana almost forgets to be annoyed. _Almost_.

“You…” She closes her eyes, swallows a few times, unpleasantly hard, then tries again. “Arse, shite… you’re in good with her, yeah? You can… you can…”

She trails off, and this time she does start heaving again, equally unpleasant if rather unproductive. Still, Leliana does not turn away this time; she simply shakes her head, disgust mingling with just the faintest glimmer of sympathy, and waits for the moment to pass.

“I’m sorry?” she asks, when Sera rights herself again, more to cut her off before she can start swearing again than out of any real curiosity. “Who, exactly, am I ‘in good’ with?”

Sera groans. “You know. _Her_. Ohh, shite, I’m dead…”

“It’s entirely possible, yes, if you continue down this road.”

She intends it as a joke, or at least a feint at one, but Sera definitely doesn’t take it that way; she just lets out a sickly little moan and cradles her head.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” she whines. “Frigging… didn’t…” She squints up at Leliana through her fingers, and the bleariness in her eyes does little to conceal the hope, the childlike desperation. “Talk to her, yeah? Tell her… _ohh, shite_ … tell her I’m sorry…”

Leliana shakes her head, still somewhat in the dark. “Sera, I’m afraid I’m not… are you referring to Josephine? Because believe me, she won’t—”

“Ruffley Ponceyfart?” She tries to shake her head, then starts groaning again. “Her? All feathers and flowers and whatever. Why’d I care what she frigging thinks?”

Leliana could name a few reasons, but by this point she can’t help thinking that she herself could stand to care a little less about Josephine’s opinions too. “The Herald, then?”

Sera actually bursts out laughing at that one. Well, she tries to, anyway; it’s an awful sound, a choking half-retching sort of thing, and it descends almost instantly into more moaning and head-clutching and general histrionics.

Such as it is, there’s something evocative in the cavalcade of humour and suffering, the way Sera laughs and groans in perfect rhythm; it brings Leliana briefly back to her own adventurous days, to hours lost at parties in Val Royeaux, to stolen moments spent giggling behind chantries just like this, of laughter shared with Josephine, with others, and drowning in regrets the moment night gave way to day. Ah, that old young-Leliana that Josie remembers so fondly, that she herself does not have the luxury of remembering at all. It hurts, thinking of such things, and she suddenly finds herself swallowing almost as hard as Sera.

“Herald,” Sera manages when she finishes spluttering. “You… you met her, right? Tiny and smooshy and frigging _dwarfy_?”

Leliana rolls her eyes. “I have met the Herald, yes.”

“So why ask a stupid question like that, then?” She blurts it out very quickly, as though her disbelief has scrambled her head, as though she’s forgotten for a moment who she’s speaking to. “Prays to frigging _rocks_ , she does. Why’d she care if I tossed my guts out here?”

“I have no idea,” Leliana says, “To be perfectly honest, Sera, I lost track of this conversation about fourteen _‘ohh, shite’_ s ago.”

Sera sighs, and tries to sit up. It takes a long time, and a great deal of effort, but she gets herself upright with only minimal cursing, sitting up with her head between her knees, breathing slowly and steadily.

“Frigging… spinning…” she whines, eyes closed. “Ohh, _shite_ …”

Leliana bites down on a chuckle, shakes her head instead. “Sera.”

“Gnh…” She raises her head with a considerable amount of effort, eyes cracking open just enough to find Leliana’s. “Frigging… _Andraste_ , yeah?”

It takes Leliana a long time to realise that the name isn’t another one of her curses, that it’s actually intended as an answer to the question, and even longer to realise that, yes, she really is asking the Left Hand of the Divine to apologise on her behalf to the Bride of the Maker for some silly drunken misdemeanour on the chantry’s dungeon floor. It is so absurd, so utterly ridiculous, that she actually laughs.

“Andraste?” she echoes when she composes herself. “You want me to apologise on your behalf to Andraste? The Bride of the Maker? For… for _this_ , yes?”

Sera ducks her head again, mumbles something incomprehensible into her knees. “Don’t need to say it like that.”

“I apologise.”

It’s not exactly sincere, but Sera doesn’t seem to mind; as usual, she’s already racing on. “Look. It’s, like… it’s frigging blasphemy or something, innit? Chucking your guts up on the Maker’s private bits or whatever. Don’t want…”

She cuts herself off, groaning again, and Leliana drives back another laugh, forces herself to sober. “I think you’re overreacting a little,” she says. “I… honestly, I doubt that Andraste would be particularly affronted by such a thing. Few of the faithful venture down here, anyway, and it’s not as though—”

“Actually…” The word is a squeak, and it sets off a warning in Leliana’s head.

“I’m sorry?”

“Yeah. Uh. Not… exactly… _just_ down here.” Sera takes a deep breath, holds it for a few seconds, then looks up again. There’s genuine terror in her eyes when she meets Leliana’s, dulled only by her physical discomfort, but Leliana is too worried about what other horrific things she might have done to offer any comfort. “Might’ve… _shite_ … might’ve ruined a statue last night too.”

Leliana stares, slack-jawed. “I… beg your pardon?”

“Statue. You know, the one in the…”

“I know the one,” Leliana says, very carefully. “In fact, _everyone_ knows the one. That’s rather the point, yes?”

Sera groans again, as though re-living the moment. “I’m sorry! It was dark, and everything was spinning and I didn’t… I wasn’t… I didn’t… it just…” She gestures rather ineffectually, as though Leliana needs or wants any further demonstration after what she’s already witnessed. “Ohhh, Maker, I’m fucked. I’m so frigging dead. Just… frigging _defiled_ a bloody _statue_ … and now down here too… and… and…”

But Leliana is no longer listening to her. The word cuts deep, far deeper than she expected, and her heart all but stops to hear it again after all this time.

 _Defiled_. Yes. Here she is again, here in what is supposed to be a holy place, a sanctuary for the faithful, a helpless witness to some shallow-minded fool’s stupidity, watching hopelessly as they run around wreaking havoc, destroying everything Leliana used to hold dear, everything that was once so important. _Defiled_ , yes, and what an ironic choice of words that is.

Sera is no Hero of Ferelden, of course, and a little drunken vomiting is hardly the same as desecrating Andraste’s ashes; Leliana knows this, but of course it doesn’t help. It doesn’t stop the memory coursing through her, the chill and the nightmare and the pain that still won’t leave her. This was an accident, yes; she need only look into Sera’s horror-filled eyes to know that, yet still she hears the echo of that day, that awful day, still feels its teeth against her, the blade biting deep, still remembers the pain, remembers everything she knows crumbling to ashes, _defiled_.

She cannot help herself: she loses her temper, lashes out, violent and angry. She knows this is unfair, that Sera did not intend to harm anyone, that she is deeply regretful, even terrified. She knows that this is _harmless_ , yes, but still the word sticks in her throat, makes her irrational, unreasonable. Still, even after all these years it cuts and tears at her, a thousand thorns from a thousand dying roses; still, even now, it makes her cry out, makes her blind with a decade of impotent rage and hurt.

“Surely you’re not serious!” She is shouting, a sharp turnaround from her prior softness, and she does not care that Sera is holding her head again, rocking back and forth and cringing, does not care that she is clearly in a great deal of physical discomfort and a greater deal of emotional distress. She does not care about anything at all. “What could have possessed you to do such a thing? To come down here is foolish enough, but at least it is cut off, at least it is solitary! At least here, you harm no-one, but up there?” She throws up her hands. “ _Defiling_ Andraste’s likeness! Sera, this is an—”

“I know—”

“No, I don’t think you do.” It’s true enough, even through the haze. “What could have possessed you to come here at all? To approach Andraste’s statue in such a state? You must have realised…”

“I…” But the words catch in her throat and she turns away.

Leliana clenches her jaw. “The chantry is a place of worship. It is a hallowed place, a _holy_ place, a place where the faithful may come to offer prayer and thanks, where the conflicted may come to find some measure of peace, where the broken may come to seek hope when they have none. It is a shelter for those who have nothing, a home for those who need comfort. It is a _sanctuary_ , not…” Her voice breaks, but she doesn’t allow that to slow her, doesn’t allow it to break her temper. “It is not a _tavern_ , Sera! It is not a place for drunkenness and carousing and…”

“ _I know that_!”

Sera is shouting too, and there is so much violence in the outburst — impressive in itself, given her current condition — that Leliana finds herself stunned into momentary silence. Sera is gasping, breathing heavily, and it is hard to tell whether it’s the force of the explosion or the words themselves that have taken so much out of her. She’s still deathly pale, still turning greenish in places, but Leliana can see the colour starting to rise, an angry pink flush creeping up the back of her neck, across her cheeks, down into the space between her breasts, subtle little places that she can’t conceal in her current state of undress. She is furious, and she doesn’t even try to hide the fact.

“Frigging _know_ that!” she cries again; it is fractionally softer this time, albeit not by much. “Why’d you think I came here in the first place? Why’d you think I…” She trails off, the discomfort catching up with her again, the sickly pallor rushing in to wash away the colour. She lets out another groan and lowers herself to the floor, face buried in her arms. “Ugh.”

“Sera—”

“Forget it, yeah?” Again, she sounds utterly miserable, but it’s a different kind of misery now, almost like a kind of frustration, like it’s not only her body forcing her to forfeit this fight. “Just forget it. Go on and piss off back where you came from. Don’t even…” She hiccups, a strangled sound that seems more to muffle a sob than anything else. “Don’t even know what you’re doing down here.”

“I came down here to find you,” Leliana admits. She is still angry as well, but Sera’s fury has quieted hers a little, and the broken little noises muffled against her arms have left her with a flash of doubt, a pointed reminder that she is here, not there, that Sera is not the Hero of Ferelden, that she at least regrets the damage she’s done. A powerful reminder, yes, and one that helps her to soften her tone. “But perhaps we should continue this discussion somewhere a little less dank, no?”

“No.” She doesn’t uncover her face, but Leliana can hear the urgency in her voice, the desperation overpowering even the discomfort. “I mean, uh… you do what you want, yeah? Never asked for you to come find me anyway. But me… can’t just… can’t just _go_ , can I? Frigging Andraste. Frigging…”

She shakes her head, face hidden, and Leliana sighs.

“As you wish,” she says, but keeps just a little edge of hardness in her voice. “We will remain here, then, if you prefer. Though I can’t say much for the decor, hm?” The feint at humour grounds them both, Sera grunting another wet hiccup into her arms, and Leliana swallowing down the last of her rage. “Now, then. While we’re here, would you like to tell me what possessed you to enter the chantry in the middle of the night to _defile_ Andraste’s statue?”

The word still stings, yes, but not as much as it did.

Sera doesn’t look at her. “Wanted to see it,” she says, a mumbled confession that is all but lost as she burrows further into the creases of her elbows. “See _her_. Andraste. Just wanted…” She’s trembling again, but not with discomfort this time, and Leliana finds herself fighting back the urge to touch her. “Like you said, innit? Just wanted to find some… find a bit of…”

“I see.”

And, yes, perhaps she does. A little, anyway. It is vaguely nonsensical, Sera’s logic, the delirious ramblings of a drunken mind, so desperate to make some sense of something, so desperate to find some fragment of faith in a world that challenges even the most devout at every turn. Oh, yes, she understands that, though of course she’d never condone her methods. 

In any case, she’s also starting to understand why Josie tasked her with this; she knew that Leliana would resist, perhaps even outright refuse, and perhaps she foresaw a moment like this, a decade’s worth of rage spilling out onto someone who does not deserve such a thing. Perhaps, yes, because her diplomat’s hand is all over this. It is the last place she expected to find such a thing, the kind of struggles that Sera talks about, the doubts and feelings she can’t quite voice through the self-consciousness and physical discomfort. 

Sera is conflicted, it seems, just as Leliana herself is, and perhaps there is more of the faithful in her than Leliana gave her credit for. An elf, here in the chantry, and is it any wonder that such a thought never occurred to her? She’s heard Sera take the Maker’s name in vain, and Andraste’s, but she always blushes when she does it; perhaps she should have seen this coming after all.

But yes, Josephine had a point in sending Leliana here after her; _here_ , of all places. Leliana still struggles with the Chantry, with her place in it, and it seems that Sera understands that a little better than she would’ve expected. A troubled soul, clearly, and one that must be desperate indeed to sneak into the chantry in the dead of night, drunk to such a terrible point, and seek out answers.

“I’m sorry, yeah?” She sounds sincere, or as close to it as she can muster in her present state; Leliana wonders if she’s speaking to her or to Andraste. “Didn’t mean… like, _really_ didn’t mean…”

“I know,” Leliana says, but the hardness still lingers.

Sera sighs, shoulders hunching. “Wasn’t… didn’t… just had to see, yeah? Had to frigging _ask_. I got so many questions, so many… and I was so frigging…” She lowers her arms, lets Leliana see the shame and the guilt in her eyes, the tears lighting up behind them. “So frigging _drunk_. You know? And I figured… sometimes stuff makes more sense that way, doesn’t it? Helps. Makes things easier. A bit. Maybe. Don’t think so much when you feel like that, right? Don’t think so hard, maybe don’t think at all. So I just… I wanted to see… figured maybe I could hear her, you know, if the shit in my head wasn’t so loud?”

Leliana’s heart aches. “I don’t think it works that way.”

“Probably not,” Sera mutters. “And, hey, not like she’d talk to me now, is it? Not after…” She shudders. “Didn’t mean it, yeah? Wasn’t like I came here, all _‘you know what’d be a right laugh?’_. Wasn’t like that, I swear. Wouldn’t, not ever. Not me. Don’t got much going for me, yeah… but I got that. Know what frigging matters.” Her eyes are painfully bright, catching the light of the sputtering torches; Leliana could drown in them, if she allowed such a thing. “I swear… I _swear_ I didn’t mean it.”

Leliana studies her for a long time, tries to swallow the pain in her chest. “I believe you,” she says, very quietly.

“I’m sorry,” Sera says again, as though she didn’t hear her. “I just… wanted some frigging _answers_ …”

Of course she did. Don’t they all? The skies are being rent asunder, and the only one who might have led Thedas through the chaos is dead, a casualty of some unknown… _what_? Accident? Murder? Who can say for certain? And how will they ever know? They all want answers, yes, some more than others, and it is natural to seek them out in a place like this, natural to turn to the Maker when the world is falling apart and faith is falling with it.

Josephine was right, Leliana realises. Sera is afraid. Not simply of _her_ , the scary spymaster, but of the very same things that Leliana herself is afraid of, the very same fears that she denies again and again, the feelings that surge up in her when she steps into this chantry and turns her eyes away from everything that once offered so much solace to a searching sister.

She, Leliana, is so afraid of all of this, of this chantry and the larger Chantry, of faith itself and what it has done to her, what it means in this broken new world. She is so afraid of faltering, of losing the only thing that ever made sense, of waking up to find herself lost again, drowning in things she does not, _cannot_ understand. She is afraid of what the world has become, of the things she feels when she whispers the Maker’s name, or Andraste’s, the things that surge in her, acid in her veins, fire and fury burning her faith away, conflict and confusion where she once felt at peace. She is afraid of her reactions here, of losing her temper and shouting at an innocent young woman for making an innocent mistake. The world has changed, and so has she, and she is so afraid of what that might mean.

And, yes, it would appear that she is not alone in that. Not completely, anyway; she doubts Sera understands the depth, the nuances of her own stumbling. But the doubt, ah, yes. Sera too, it seems, is struggling with that, struggling to reconcile her faith with loss and pain and fear, what she wants to believe — what she _aches_ to believe, perhaps even _needs_ to believe — with what her eyes and experience tells her is the truth. She feels that, as surely and as certainly as Leliana herself does, and what does it matter that the sources are not the same, that they perhaps come from different places, different parts of the soul, the self? What does it matter, when it manifests in the same faltering pain?

Josephine saw this, of course. Long before Leliana did, it seems. But, ah, isn’t that what diplomats do? Isn’t that what Josie has always done, for as long as Leliana has known her? Of course she saw this, of course she knew and understood. It is entirely possible that she herself has dealt with Sera in this state before, perhaps even heard this very confession. It would make a devastating amount of sense if she had.

 _Clever, Josie,_ she thinks in spite of herself. _Always so very clever._

She turns to Sera, studies her again. “This is not the first time you’ve done this?”

Sera blinks, bleary and confused. “You what?”

“This,” Leliana clarifies, gesturing at the darkened walls, the dirt floor, the mess Sera has left in her wake. “It is not the first time that you’ve drunk yourself into a stupor and found your way to the chantry in the middle of the night, seeking answers…” She almost allows a smile, schools her expression just in time. “Perhaps even this, waking in the morning to an unfamiliar face, half-naked and confused.”

Sera winces, bites her lip. It is almost endearing, how quickly she fumbles for her tunic now that Leliana has brought her attention to it.

“Don’t frigging say it like that,” she mutters, tugging the threadbare thing over her head.

“I’m sorry,” Leliana says, without so much as a hint of sincerity. “In any event, the question remains: you have done this before, yes?”

Sera flushes, shame coloured by defiance. “Not… I mean… not like _this_ , yeah?” She gestures. “Never puked on frigging Andraste before, if that’s what you’re asking.” Leliana grimaces, but doesn’t interrupt. “Not that stupid. Just… got a bit carried away last night, that’s all. All these new people coming in, buying us all drinks and shite… and I… I guess I just…” She sighs. “Not like _this_ , no. But yeah. Sometimes. Maybe.”

She looks so embarrassed, so afraid that Leliana can’t help but console her a little. “I don’t mean to chasten you again,” she says. “I was simply… curious.”

“Yeah?” She musters a thin smile; the flush on her cheeks makes her look a little healthier now, a little closer to the odd young woman who came to her yesterday seeking help. “I mean, uh, good. Because it’s not… not about that, yeah? Not about getting stupid and tripping over my feet and making a mess and all that stupid shit. Not about any of it.”

“I know,” Leliana says.

Sera nods, continues. “Just… it’s _this_. Haven, yeah? And you can… you close your eyes, you can frigging smell the ashes or whatever. We’re just… we’re just so frigging _close_ , you know? To the temple, I mean. The frigging _Temple of Sacred Ashes_ , and that’s supposed to mean something, innit? That place, and… and maybe this place too. _‘Haven’_. Supposed to mean something, right?”

She doesn’t mean it literally, Leliana knows, but that’s the only way she can make it into something bearable, the only way she can answer the question without breaking down entirely. Literal, yes, the kind of meaning she can reduce to facts, to words; anything more, and they will both be lost down here.

“It means ‘sanctuary’,” she says, and frowns. “Not unlike the chantry, in fact.”

Sera nods, then slumps forward, lowers her face until her forehead touches the dirt floor. In another moment, on another day, she might almost look like she was praying; right now, however, she simply looks exhausted.

“That, yeah,” she says, very softly. “ _Sanctuary_. Figured it might… thought I could… maybe…”

“I understand.” She sighs. “I… truly, Sera, I understand.”

“I’m sorry,” Sera says again, and doesn’t look up. “I’d never… I’m not… if I’d frigging _known_ I was going to…”

“I know,” Leliana says again, softer. “And let us not spend any more times on these apologies, hm? As I said, I understand. In truth… well perhaps I might have done the same thing in another lifetime. Doused myself in drink to lighten the burden of not knowing, and sought some small comfort in an empty chantry, searching desperately for even just a moment’s respite from the questions, the…”

She trails off, but it’s enough; Sera lifts her head. “You’ll put in a word, yeah? You, all Left Hand of the Divine and whatever. And… and you’re in with the Herald too, right? _Andraste_ ’s Herald. So she… she’ll listen to you if you explain it. Andraste, I mean, not the Herald.”

She flushes again, as though realising how absurd she sounds, and Leliana musters a sad broken chuckle. As though such things truly were so simple. Put in a word with the Maker’s Bride, and all will be well. Ah, she would give anything for such a thing.

It shames her, the way Sera is looking at her now, as though her empty titles mean everything, as though she herself is nothing more or less than what those names say she is. Left Hand to a dead Divine, killed for what she can only assume was the Maker’s will, a will that still eludes her. ‘In with the Herald’, as though a smart-mouthed career criminal with a mark on her hand is any substitute for the life they’ve lost, the light extinguished forever. Both of those things, used interchangeably, as though either one is all it takes to define her.

Leliana cannot speak for Andraste; lately, she can scarcely bring herself to speak _to_ her, and it is absurd for Sera to look at her now, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, as though she can simply utter a quick prayer and make empty and worthless promises that the Maker will forgive.

Once, perhaps she might have done such a thing; for Sera’s sake, if not her own, she might have lied through her teeth, offered the penance she so clearly wants. Perhaps, yes, but so much time has passed since then, and she is so changed, so different. She can no longer claim to know the Maker’s will. In truth, perhaps, she no longer wishes to.

“I don’t speak for Andraste,” she says to Sera, keeping her voice even. “If you want to apologise for your indiscretions, Sera, I’m afraid it falls on you and you alone.”

Sera lets out another groan, as tragic and broken as Leliana’s chuckle. She’s starting to look queasy again, though Leliana suspects rather different reasons this time. “Right.” She closes her eyes, sighs heavily. “Yeah. Figured…”

Leliana watches her for a very long time. The tremors in her limbs, the pallor of her skin, the way she still can’t bring herself to meet her eyes. Shame, certainly, and some guilt as well, but there is something else in her as well, something that Leliana has been far too quick to dismiss. _Hope_ , shrouded by fear. It’s the same thing she saw yesterday, nervousness and discomfort coloured over by something deeper, something truer; it has nothing to do with the liquor in her system, Leliana knows, and everything to do with the way the dim chantry light catches Leliana’s chainmail, the way it catches her eyes. She wonders what Sera sees when she looks at her then looks away like that, if she recognises a kindred spirit, or perhaps hopes that she may find one, that _they_ may find something within each other.

 _‘Knives,’_ she said yesterday. She tripped over her words, stumbled over their meanings, clumsy and awkward; even more so, in a strange sort of way, than she is now. _‘Knives,’_ yes, and _‘teach me to be something else.’_

Leliana watches the shame flushing Sera’s cheeks, the regret and the guilt and the need for penance. She watches Andraste’s name take shape on her lips, again and again in a silent mouthed prayer. She watches her eyes, dim from the liquor but bright with a different kind of moisture, gleaming under the torchlight; they say more than her words ever can, those eyes, and perhaps that is why she hides them as she does, turns them away before anyone can see what depth they truly hold. She is afraid, just as Josephine said, of so many terrible things.

So, then, perhaps Josephine was not wrong about this. Odd as it seems, and all the more so in this hallowed and hollow place, perhaps Leliana really can teach Sera to be something else.

And, yes, perhaps Sera can teach Leliana a little of the same in turn.

—


	3. Chapter 3

—

They begin with blunted blades.

There is a kind of irony in that, Leliana supposes, though it doesn’t do to dwell on such things. Neither one of them is particularly equipped for this, for melee combat and training with a partner, and yet here they are, side-by-side testing the weight of training daggers as though they’ve been doing it for their entire lives. And, well, perhaps in Leliana’s case that might have been the case; another year in Orlais, another two with Justinia… a few different choices and a couple of different steps, and who could say what would have become of her? Needs must, after all, and a dagger is infinitely more subtle than a bow.

Josephine was right in that, as was Sera: Leliana does have experience here. Oh, she would deny it if she could, but she knows better than anyone that denial won’t change the truth. And, yes, the facts are here, as true now as they ever were, experience and life lessons simmering beneath the surface of her skin, heating her from inside, veins burning hot with muscle memory, the parts of her that slide into this as naturally as anything she’s ever known. The Game, oh yes, and no-one leaves without learning something.

The blunt edges feel strange, unnnaturally safe as she threads it between her fingers. Another revenant from her younger days, it is difficult not to be distracted by the imperfections, the knowledge that this sort of a weapon could do no damage. It feels pointless, pathetic, but the handle still fits into her palm as neat and perfect as ever, and when she lashes out with an experimental thrust or two, it comes as easily as though she never gave it up at all. None of this is new, oh no, but _Maker_ , how she wishes it was.

For Sera’s part, it is new. The blade, the handle, every part of this as strange and confusing as Haven; it is all an adventure, a lesson. It’s mid-afternoon by the time they start; Leliana sent her away to straighten herself out, sleep off the remains of her over-indulgence, eat a good meal, take a bath, and she’s an entirely different person in the wake of those things, a far cry from the moaning dishevelled mess Leliana found in the chantry. This is the over-eager young woman who sought her out yesterday, bright-eyed and hopeful and achingly endearing. This is the Sera the rest of the Inquisition sees.

It is refreshing, the smile on her face, though in truth Leliana finds that she envies her a little. No doubt her struggles still cling to her, the doubt and the questions that still remain unanswered, but she gives off the illusion of having put it behind her it with all the talent of a world-class player of the Game. Leliana can tell that she’s still shaken, still stricken by shame and guilt, but she hides those corners of herself far better than Leliana has managed lately to hide hers.

They start, of course, with the basics. Talking, mostly, and Sera is not shy about showing her impatience. She wants to _do_ things, she insists, go out there and start stabbing, but the fact remains that she scarcely knows the point of a knife from its handle. “All things in time,” Leliana tells her, and drills the simple things into her head, weight and balance, the correct ways to wield a blade so as not to risk impaling herself.

It doesn’t seem to matter how long it’s been since she last put these things into practice; she slips back into it as easily as she slips into any mask, effortless if not entirely comfortable. To Sera, though, it’s all new and strange, like learning a language she doesn’t understand, trying to figure out how to twist her tongue into shapes it’s never made. Leliana has seen the way she strings her bow, the way she fletches her arrows, the joy she takes from her work; she knows how diligent she can be when she sets her mind to something. She has talent, yes, but lacks the will to use it, and for a time impatience and frustration colour her efforts, keep her inattentive and unfocused.

Her hands twitch where she holds the daggers, the left more than the right, and the blades mark out awkward, jagged zig-zags in the air. It’s crude and clumsy, and makes Leliana cringe. Sera is clearly unaccustomed to using both of her hands equally, unaccustomed to weapons that work in tandem with her nerves, her skin, that react as the blood in her veins; she knows how to wield the kind of weapon that works on its own, but a dagger doesn’t work like a bow.

Leliana knows bows, in truth far better than she knows daggers. She understands where Sera’s coming from, remembers facing the same difficulties herself. It is an awkward transition, an odd one; Sera is used to straightforward things: the bow’s body bending, reacting, the string taut as she pulls it back, arrows flying where she tells them to. She is used to weapons that serve as tools, as objects. A dagger is not like that, and Leliana can see Sera struggling to reconcile what she knows with what she’s learning. Her hands shake, yes, itching with the need to _use_ something.

The blade must be an extension of the hand, Leliana tells her, an extension of the body; the slash or the thrust must come from within, formed like a punch, not nocked like an arrow.

Sera growls and grumbles and insists that she hates everything.

“Doesn’t work right,” she gripes. “Just… doesn’t frigging _work_.”

Leliana sighs, runs her fingers along the edge of her own blade, tests the bluntness against her gloves. She understands Sera’s frustrations, yes, but the girl is as impatient as anyone she’s ever met. Understandable, given what she knows about her, but that doesn’t make her any easier to teach, and it certainly doesn’t make it any less maddening to try and break through to her.

“Josephine tells me you’re something of natural with your bow,” she says.

Sera huffs, glares at the daggers. “You what?”

“You’ve never required formal training, never studied, never been taught how to make a shot clean, that sort of thing. From my understanding, you simply… _do_ , yes?”

“Something like that,” Sera mutters. “Not like this shit.”

“You’re uncomfortable in this environment,” Leliana says. “Having a teacher, learning how to apply yourself, absorbing information. It’s difficult for you?”

Sera flushes, and her hands twitch a little more violently. This is clearly a sensitive spot, and Leliana takes a small, subtle step backwards, grants her some space to process, to still her hands and steady herself for a response. When she does answer, her voice is low, and there is a roughness to it that implies she’s embarrassed.

“Dunno,” she mumbles. “Never had to try, did I? Took what I could use, pissed on the rest. No time for sticking your head in books when you’re…” She trails off, flushing, then shakes her head. “Dunno.”

“Ah, yes. Your upbringing.”

“Sure.” Sera closes her eyes. “Let’s call it that.”

She clenches her fists around the daggers, frustration and shame bleeding together, as though she can’t figure out whether to be angry with herself for not being a perfect student, or with Leliana for not being a perfect teacher. On another day it might be endearing, perhaps even sweet, but Leliana is not the patient lay-sister she used to be, the smiling young woman who would gladly while away her hours in foolishness like this. Every moment spent here is like a moment wasted, a moment that should be spent elsewhere, and yes, she is frustrated too.

“Sera…”

“I know,” Sera snaps, annoyed. “Not like I’m not bloody _trying_. Just wrong, innit? Wrong and stupid and just…” She shakes her head, fingers twitching. “Stupid frigging hands.”

“There is nothing wrong with your hands, Sera,” Leliana says. “Or your weapons.”

Sera, of course, isn’t listening; she’s too busy rambling off a list of things that annoy her, not caring whether they’re relevant to the moment or not. “Frigging Inquisition. Frigging smooshy Herald.”

“The Herald isn’t here, Sera.”

“Know that, you arse. But it’s her bloody fault, innit? Wouldn’t be doing this shite if I didn’t… if she wasn’t…” She bites her lip, turns her gaze upwards, and Leliana watches the frustration turn to panic, horror as the Breach’s green glow floods her face. “Aww, shite. I don’t know. Just want to be good enough, yeah? Need to be.”

“An admirable goal,” Leliana says softly. “But one that can’t be achieved through good intentions alone. If this does not come to you as naturally as you’d like, then you must accept that, yes? Stop expecting to master this, master everything the instant you begin. You must realise that it will take time to—”

“Don’t frigging _have_ time!” It is a whine, petulant and sullen, and painfully predictable, but there is no denying the panic lancing its heart. “Heard your Seeker talking. That thing’s gonna… it’ll swallow the bloody world if we don’t… if the Herald doesn’t… and I have to… want to…” She turns away from the Breach, and for a moment or two the rest of her is shaking almost as hard as her hands. “Don’t you got any fancy Bard tricks or something? Bet you had to get good fast too. Bet you had to learn right quick. Bet you could…”

Leliana cuts her off with a wave of her hand; she does not want to think about that, and she won’t let herself be goaded into a conversation that will end badly for them both. “That is not the—”

“Yeah, it is. Not just me who knows it, either. Why’d you think your Lady Ruffley-Tit picked you for the job?”

Leliana chuckles, dry and humourless. “At a guess, because I did something terrible to her and she wants to punish me.”

“Pffft. Nah.” The word is a laugh, spluttered and snarky. “She knows you. Don’t need to be smart to see that. Don’t need to be one of you to know that goes proper deep, you two. And she…” She’s biting her lip again, and Leliana finds that she wants to smooth back that unruly mass of hair, touch her face until the tension bleeds out, until speaking is less of a struggle for her. “Ambassador, right? Diplomat or whatever, like there’s a sodding difference. Anyway, fancy words, don’t care what they mean or nothing, but she… she sees shite. Sees you, anyway. Like, the proper you, not the ‘you’ you put on for daft tits like me. Like, ‘ _Sister Nightingale’_ , sure… but she gets all soft when she says it. Sees through all that armour. Sees _you_.”

It is an astute observation. She is unnervingly good at that. “Sera.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. None of my business, right? Just… sit down, shut up, and do what I’m told?”

“Precisely so.” She means it to sound witty, even silly, but it doesn’t.

Besides, what can she say? This is difficult, and far more so than she expected. Sera is so eager to learn, but so unfamiliar with what that actually means. She is impatient, desperate to have the world at her fingertips, and she’s never had the opportunity to find out that sometimes such things take time and patience and _effort_ , that learning a new skill requires work, and that more often than not it requires _failure_.

Likewise, she supposes, she’s never had the luxury of a safe space to learn, to be educated properly, a training ground where she can learn these things safely, without the risk of death or starvation if she doesn’t succeed on the first try. So much of what she is now can be explained by where she’s been, the life she’s been forced to live, so much waste and loss, potential burned away in back-alleys and on the streets. Tragic, truly, and it is only now, for perhaps the first time in her life, that she finds herself in possession of these things she never even imagined.

When she looks at Leliana, frustrated and upset, it is as though she is desperate for someone to blame, aching for the fault not to lie with her. _You’re supposed to be helping,_ she says with her eyes. _You’re supposed to make me better, make me into something new, something good… something like you._

She doesn’t say it aloud, perhaps because she’s still afraid of the scary spymaster, but Leliana can see the words in the set of her jaw, the flash in her eye, the way she bites her lip. She looks at Leliana and sees something to be admired, something to strive for. She doesn’t see the terrible things that brought her here, the countless deaths that still haunt her, her own included, all the countless reasons why she pulls her hood up high and hides her face. She doesn’t see the memory of Divine Justinia, does not hear the whispers that still echo with every pulse of green light from the Breach above; she is so young, and she does not understand that becoming something like Leliana means bathing in blood.

Leliana grips her own daggers a little harder. Perhaps the fault is hers after all; she’s made no efforts to be honest about this, no attempt at opening herself up, sharing the parts of herself that resonate in time with Sera’s own struggles. She has done as little as possible, in truth, and convinced herself that it is for the best. Sera looks at her like she is an enigma, a mystery to be solved, and how can Leliana blame her when that is precisely what she’s trying to be?

She doesn’t tell Sera that the daggers don’t feel right in her hands either, that her fingers itch for a bow just as desperately as Sera’s do, that she longs for a quiver, for arrows, for the familiarity of the life she’s made for herself, for the power that comes with taking control of an object, of making the decision to make _that_ her weapon of choice. Sera already knows that she is an archer too, that they share the same preference in that respect, and though Leliana knows she could draw out that empathy a little, make Sera feel a little less alone in the way she curses and hates her ineptitude, she doesn’t.

Instead, she puts on a demonstration, shows Sera the things she will come to learn if only she can find an iota of patience. She threads the blunted blades between her fingers, allows the flurry of motion to steady her own thoughts as well, to drive away the shadows and the memories, the things she can’t help but think about in moments like this. The daggers blur, speed and precision; Sera stares, slack-jawed, and Leliana feels almost at home.

Perhaps she should take up knives again after all, she thinks. It calms her, clears her thoughts, and when the afternoon sun catches the dull edges of the blades she can almost let herself forget that she ever knew anything else.

After a moment or two, Sera tries to emulate her. Pointless, yes, but Leliana allows it, watches with a small smile as the silly young thing tries to thread one of her knives through her own fingers. She lacks Leliana’s finesse, of course, to say nothing of the years of practice it takes to perfect such a thing, and of course her hands are still twitching, shaking, jerky little tremors that begin at her wrist and jolt through to the tips of her fingers. It is no surprise, then, that she falters, cursing loudly. The blade slips between her fingers, falls from her grip and hits the ground; if the weapons weren’t blunted for training, Leliana thinks, the snow at their feet would be a wash of blood.

“Piss,” Sera mutters, and lets the other dagger fall as well.

Leliana stoops to pick them up, shakes her head as she straightens. “You expect too much too fast,” she says, not for the first time. She studies the weapons thoughtfully, notes the way they catch the light of the Breach, the sun; after a moment, she shrugs and tucks them into her belt, handing Sera her own instead. “Here. Try these. For now, simply hold them. Feel their weight, the balance. I have told you before…”

“Said it, yeah. Still don’t make no sense, though, does it? ‘Balance’ and shite.”

“Oh?” Leliana quirks a brow, one hand on her hip. “Does your bow not work that way too? Do you never adjust your stance to suit the terrain? Lean a little to the left or the right, depending on where you’re aiming? Shift your body depending on what kind of shot you take?”

“Not really.” She shuffles her feet, and though her features are still knotted with frustration, still Leliana can see that she’s trying very hard to understand. “Just… you miss, and then you don’t.”

Leliana chuckles. If she wasn’t so serious, so annoyed, she might almost think Sera was being deliberately evasive; a single glance at her face tells a different story, though: odd as her phrasing is, she genuinely seems to believe that. 

“As simple as that, yes?” she asks, gently goading.

Sera huffs. “Why do people keep saying it like that?” Her voice is thick with aggravation, but the tremors in her hands lessen just slightly as she speaks. “Like it’s so bloody hard to just not miss?”

“Fascinating,” Leliana murmurs.

“Right.” She spits the word, like a curse. “Yeah. Because that’s why I’m here, innit? For you lot in your big hats to scratch your heads and go _‘fascinating’_.”

The affront is a mask, Leliana can tell, but the edge beneath it is very real, as though she’s trying to cover over something deeper, an underlying hurt. Leliana studies her for a long moment, under the pretence of watching the sunlight glint off her dagger; she catches Sera’s eyes reflected in the surface, finds them much wider than they should be. Fascinating, indeed; she isn’t angry, though she’s clearly trying to be. More accurately, she’s simply afraid, even vulnerable. Leliana wonders if perhaps this isn’t the first time she’s found herself under unwanted scrutiny; she wonders if this is a sensitive subject, the peculiar way that Sera connects with her talent, if perhaps there is a part of her that feels stupid because she can’t adequately explain it.

“You’ve been asked about this before.” It is not a question.

Sera swallows hard, turns her face away, and her body language is all the answer Leliana needs. “Don’t matter one way or the other, does it?” she mumbles. “Didn’t ask for help with shit I can already do. Asked for help with _this_.”

She waves one of the daggers in Leliana’s face, close enough that she might have taken a cautious step backwards if they were properly sharpened. “Sera…” she warns.

“Whatever.” Her hands shake again where she grips the handle. “You going to help or not?”

Leliana bows her head, shrouds her eyes beneath the weight of her hood.

“Of course,” she says, and lets Sera believe she’s smiling.

—

After perhaps an hour’s worth of begging, she lets Sera loose on the training dummies.

It helps to have a target, she tells herself by way of lessening the blow. She did not _give in_ to Sera’s whining; she simply employed a new educational tool. In theory, anyway; it shouldn’t surprise or annoy her nearly as much as it does that Sera insists on throwing the daggers at her targets rather than using them in the appropriate way. A learning aid, certainly, but not the way she’s doing it.

Leliana tries, repeatedly, to explain the difference between throwing knives and melee daggers, but of course Sera doesn’t listen. She just mutters something about _‘frigging balance again, piss off’_ and goes right back to what she was doing.

She throws well, admittedly, even with weapons that aren’t intended for such use. She hits her target more or less every time, perhaps a combination of renewed confidence and the idea that throwing is not too far removed from archery; in any event, the way she throws up her fists and howls her victory is so utterly adorable that Leliana finds she can’t quit bring herself to put a stop to it. Foolish, yes, and a waste of time, but _oh_ , the look on Sera’s face when she makes a shot…

“A little to the left next time,” she sighs, and tells herself that at least Sera isn’t afraid of the blasted things when she’s playing like this.

They’ve been at it for some time when Cassandra stops by to observe. If the look on her face is any measure to judge by, she’s somewhat less amused by the whole thing than Leliana is, and she can hardly keep the derision out of her voice when she says, “I trust you are aware that those are not throwing knives?”

Leliana chuckles. “Of course. But look at her, Cassandra. This is the first time she’s smiled in almost four hours. Worth it, no?”

Cassandra stares at her for a long moment, suspicion thinning her lips. “Do not tell me you’re going soft.”

“On _her_?” Leliana laughs. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is strictly professional. Josie roped me into training her, and I thought it might help her to focus if we bolstered her confidence a little.” Still, she finds herself hoping that her hood is pulled down low enough for Cassandra to not catch the flush of her cheeks. “That’s all.”

Cassandra rolls her eyes, a rare flash of mischief lighting up behind them as she turns her attention to Sera. She’s whooping and yowling and carrying on as though she’s single-handedly sealed the Breach, as though she’s saved the world simply by pulling off another poorly-aimed shot. Ridiculous, most definitely, but so very endearing.

Cassandra shakes her head. “By the Maker, she’s enthusiastic.”

“It’s a welcome change,” Leliana says with a sigh. “You should’ve seen her earlier.”

“Oh?” Cassandra tears her eyes away from Sera, turns back to face her. “She has not taken well to melee combat?”

“Not at all. She… it’s odd, to tell the truth of it. As you can see, she could split a fly at a hundred paces if she had to, but ask her to get closer, to take a blade in her hand…” She spreads her arms. “Hopeless.”

Cassandra snorts. “I doubt it helps that you’re coddling her.”

“I am not!” The very idea is absurd, of course, and Leliana huffs very loudly to prove the point. “It’s delicate, that’s all. She is prickly, unpredictable, and I need to find the perfect balance in dealing with her. I—”

“ _You_ ,” Cassandra interrupts, quite pointedly, “are deluding yourself if you truly believe that is the case.”

Over by the training dummies, Sera lets out another victory cry. She’s grinning from ear to ear as she turns to glance at Leliana, waving and cheering, then scurries off to retrieve her dagger again. Leliana waves back, and makes a careful point not to look at Cassandra; the last thing she needs right now — the last thing _Sera_ needs — is to see the disgust she knows she’ll find on the Seeker’s face.

“Well,” she says, keeping her eyes averted. “If I am, it’s Josephine’s doing, not mine. _She_ is the one who insisted on this, you know, and the one who refused to listen when I told her I had more important things to do. If you’re going to go running around making such accusations, why not go and make them at her? _I_ am simply making the best of an awkward and unpleasant situation.”

“Of course you are,” Cassandra says, and pats her on the shoulder.

It is perhaps the most condescending display Leliana has ever seen… and given the amount of time she’s spent rubbing shoulders with the Val Royeaux elite, that’s really saying something. “Tsk. You know nothing.”

“Of course I do.”

She leaves fairly quickly after that, perhaps sensing that Leliana is on the verge of threatening her with assassins. She passes Sera as she goes, though, and leans in to whisper something into her ear; Leliana can’t make out the words from such a distance, but she can see the look on both their faces, and that’s enough to tell her it’s something entirely untoward. She puts a stop to it, of course, with a wave and a few choice phrases that would no doubt make dear Josephine blush to her toes.

As soon as she’s gone again Sera comes scurrying over to Leliana’s side. “You see that?”

Leliana is still watching Cassandra’s retreating form, still silently bristling at her words. “Cassandra? Don’t worry about her. She’s all bark and no bite. Or… well, perhaps I should say, all bite and no bark.” She clears her throat. “Either way, she won’t hurt you.”

“Course she won’t. She likes me.” It’s bravado, as clear as daylight, evidenced by the twitching in her hands, the way the dagger almost slips out of her grasp, the way she fumbles to keep hold of it. Still, she’s smiling, and that’s worth a great deal. “ _Everyone_ likes me.”

Leliana lets her gaze rest on her hands. Sera squirms under the attention, fiddling with the dagger’s handle then handing it back.

“Well,” Leliana says, “let’s not get ahead of ourselves, hm? It doesn’t serve anyone to be cocky.”

“Right, right, yeah.”

Leliana grimaces, turns the dagger over in her hands, studies the blade a little more closely than she needs to. Anything to keep from looking too closely at Sera’s smile, seeing the cracks and feeling the kick in her chest that makes her want to pave over them, warm her shaking hands with her own.

“Sera. We both know you didn’t come to me to learn how to throw.” She gestures at the training dummies, no worse for the assault. “If you had, I would have procured weapons more suited to the task, though you clearly need no help with such things. Why waste half the afternoon playing with things you already know?”

Sera flushes. There’s no frustration in her this time, only embarrassment, and Leliana stubbornly ignores the part of her that wants to offer a bit of comfort.

“Because I’m good at it, yeah? Like, _proper_ good. And I guess I figured, you know, I’m so shite at the other stuff, I just wanted you to see that I…” Her voice cracks. “…that I’m not shite at everything.”

Leliana tries to smile, but the expression won’t come. “I already know this, Sera. We both do. But this…” She sighs again, heavy. “This is…”

“I know, I know. Waste of your precious spymaster time, innit?”

Leliana sighs, but doesn’t bother trying to deny it. She couldn’t, even if she wanted to, and in all honesty she doesn’t want to. It is certainly true enough. Sera is serious about learning, she knows, but she is also easily frustrated and easily distracted; her attention is hard to gain in the first place, and harder still to keep, and that doesn’t help either of them. Sera would waste hours, even days on this sort of procrastination, all the while crying that she needs to get good _now_ , and Leliana… well, perhaps there is something to Cassandra’s words after all because, Maker preserve her, she’s done nothing to stop her. _Worth it, no?_ , she said, and smiled because Sera was smiling.

No. She cannot afford this kind of softness.

She takes a breath, forces herself to face this, even if it means shaking the smile from both their faces. “You’re too easily distracted,” she says. “You… _we_ must focus now, yes?”

“Trying, yeah?” Sera mutters, kicking at the snow. “It’s just… it’s _hard_ , innit? Well, probably not for you, but… you know. Not used to piss like this. And these frigging stupid things…” She cocks her head at the daggers. “Can’t hold them right. Can’t do nothing right when you’re standing there. And then you give me that look, you know, _that_ one, like right now, like I should be better, like this is supposed to be the easy part. And… I dunno, maybe it it is. Should be, anyway. Know that, yeah, but it’s not so easy for idiots who aren’t spymasters. Not easy, yeah? And you look at me like that, like I… frigging…”

She spreads her hands, and yes, even without the daggers they’re still shaking, still twitching from wrist to fingertip. Leliana closes her eyes, blocks out the sight. Easy enough to drown out Cassandra’s voice when Sera looks so helpless, but now of course she hears Josie’s instead. _‘For a start,’_ she said yesterday, _‘she is afraid of you.’_ Looking at her now, perhaps it’s more true than either of them want to admit.

“I see,” she says aloud, and sighs.

Sera groans, eyes squeezing shut for a moment, as though sensing she’s said something uncomfortable, terrified that she’s messed this up, as though such a thing is inevitable. Perhaps, from her perspective, it is; no doubt she’s not used to this, people investing their time in her, and given what Leliana knows about her it wouldn’t be surprising at all if she simply assumes the worst of every possible scenario.

“Aww, shite,” she says, proving the point quite articulately. “No, no, no. Don’t get like that, yeah? Just… I’m just saying, yeah? Don’t want… didn’t mean…” She sucks in a breath, lets it out loudly. “Aww, _shite_ …”

“Language, Sera.” It’s meant in jest, or at least as a kind of ice-breaker, but it fails in both respects. Sera just looks more miserable, like she’s afraid every word out of her mouth will drive Leliana further away. So, yes, she gives it up, the feint at levity, presses on with quiet sobriety. “In any case, it’s getting late. Unless you have anything more pressing to do at the moment, I suggest—”

“No, don’t!” Her voice is thick, panic turning it to a tremor, a gasp and a twitch to match the shudders in her hands. “I mean… uh… don’t, like… I mean… _focus_ , yeah? I can do that. We can… you don’t have to…”

Leliana forces a dry chuckle. “For _now_ , Sera. Not for _good_.”

“Yeah?” _Maker_ , she sounds so small. As though she truly can’t believe it, can’t fathom the idea that one little misstep won’t ruin everything.

“Absolutely,” Leliana says, keeping her voice strong. “We both need to find our focus, both need to prioritise. As I said, it’s getting late. It makes sense to end for the day. _For the day_ , Sera. If you’re still willing, of course we will continue this in the morning.”

Sera looks like she’s about to drop into a faint, disbelief leaving her breathless. “Really?”

“Yes.” She twists her features in a mask of discipline. “But no more of this evasion, hm? You must be prepared to work, even to fail, if that’s what is required.” Sera nods hurriedly, bobbing her head like an over-eager puppy. “Good. And I…” She sighs, turns away for a half-second, wraps the shadows of the sinking sun around herself so that Sera can’t see her own doubts. “Well. I suppose I shall do the same. We will figure this out together, yes?”

“Yeah!”

And there it is again, the painful enthusiasm radiating from her; she’s almost brighter than the sun when she gets like this, lit up by the will to do something, the ache to be better than she believes herself capable of.

It is so difficult to take a hard line with her when she looks like that, eyes wide and smile wider. It is so difficult not to, as Cassandra said, _coddle_ her, become _soft_ when she smiles and laughs and cheers her own cleverness. It is so difficult not to encourage such things, this wasteful behaviour, to focus on what matters, their true reason for being here. It is so difficult, yes, to treat this the way she knows she must, and all the more so when Sera’s standing there, hands and voice shaking, like Leliana could break her with a word if she wanted to.

She must be better. They both must, yes, but Leliana must be the one to take command. She must be hard, strong, must take a firm line when necessary. Again, she hears Cassandra’s voice in her head, the disdain an endless reminder of all the things Leliana will become if this continues, all the things she can’t afford to become. Soft, yes, and distracted. Weak and foolish and prone to waste time when the Inquisition needs her, to while away her hours in frivolity and nonsense while Justinia’s work still remains undone, to waste _everything_ simply because it makes Sera smile.

No. She can’t afford such a thing. She can’t afford to soften the way she does when Sera smiles, can’t afford to feel that kick in her chest when she whoops and cheers. She can’t afford any of this, and it must stop. She must stop it.

“We must _focus_ ,” she says again, and this time it is not for Sera’s benefit at all.

—

Josephine hunts her down a few hours later.

That’s hardly a surprise, really. It is, after all, the job of an ambassador to know precisely the moment her presence is not wanted and leap on it. And, yes, this conversation is exactly the last thing in the world Leliana wants right now. Of course Josie would hone in on that; she’s as relentless as a Mabari when she sets her mind to it.

Leliana doesn’t even pretend she’s glad to see her. “I suppose you’re here to say _‘I told you so’_ ,” she mutters, in lieu of a greeting.

Josephine’s smile is positively obscene. “Why, Leliana, I have no idea what you mean.”

Leliana doesn’t give her the satisfaction of a response, knowing full well that Josie would find a way to turn it against her. She recognises that look on her face, and she has no intention of indulging it. In any event, she’s already wasted half the day, and she has no intention of wasting a second more.

She makes a point of it, in fact, turning away, ignoring her, attention locked on the paperwork sprawled out in front of her, the day’s duties gone neglected. The air is cold, and the papers flutter, threatening to scatter from the wind; the tarpaulin does little to protect her workspace from the elements, but the alternative is the chantry, and Leliana still doesn’t have the stomach for that. The things she does, the decisions she makes, weigh heavily on her shoulders, and even just the thought of doing such things in that place is too much to endure. Too many memories of Justinia, the comfort her company brought, the way she turned the chantry into something beautiful, something that was truly important… no. She cannot do these things there, cannot send people to their deaths, sell secrets for blood, in a place that holds such precious memories.

Josephine, of course, does not give up so easily. She is quiet for a time, though clearly not by choice; perhaps she senses that Leliana is not feeling particularly chatty, or else she’s waiting for an opening; either way, it doesn’t work, and when she finally does break the silence, a few long minutes later, it’s with a sigh in her voice.

“You work too hard, Leliana.”

“I have no choice in the matter,” Leliana snaps, a little more roughly than she probably should. “ _Someone_ insisted that that I waste half the day babysitting. _Someone_ insisted that I while away the hours watching silly girls throwing daggers at training dummies instead of focusing on more important matters. _Someone_ —”

“Yes, yes, all right. You’ve made your point.” She doesn’t bother to hide her smirk, though, not that Leliana expected her to. “How fares our would-be assassin?”

“She’s not an _assassin_ , Josie.”

Josephine makes an impatient noise, but concedes the point, understands the weight such a title carries for a spymaster, and for Leliana in particular.

“You know what I mean,” she says, as close to an apology as either of them will get today. “Sera. How fares _Sera_?”

Leliana closes her eyes for a moment, then turns back to her papers. Orders for yet another high-risk low-reward scouting mission, the kind that will no doubt end in blood, and she runs estimates in her head for how many birds it will require to send word to the respective families. 

“She defiled the statue of Andraste,” she says, blinking hard as the ink blurs.

Oblivious to her darker thoughts, and the severity of her words, Josephine laughs. Actually _laughs_ , as though this were some silly joke; Leliana bites her tongue, reconsiders using the word ‘assassin’.

“Come now, Leliana,” Josie giggles. “From what I hear of the matter, I would hardly call such a thing ‘defiling’.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. You don’t…” She sighs, turns away from the papers before she can lose her temper and throw them to the wind. “You have never understood such things.”

“That is unfair.”

“Is it?” She hates the pitch of her voice, sharp and angry, as though this really is the important issue, as though she’s not simply evading other things, brutal things that have nothing to do with this. “She was _drunk_ in the _chantry_ , Josephine!”

“And you have never done anything of the sort?” She snorts her derision, so much like Cassandra’s. “You preach so loudly now, Leliana, but you were not always so clean.”

“I don’t claim…” It hurts, a deep painful cut, and again she sees the names of her agents flash before her eyes, stark in blurry, fading ink; she counts off the number of ways they could die, prays that they take the painless ones. “Even if I wanted to, I could never claim such a thing.”

Josephine softens a little. “In any event, there was no harm done. It was an innocent mistake.”

“I suppose.”

_And she, at least, was regretful. That’s more than I can say for myself lately._

“Besides,” Josephine goes on, “did you stop to consider the idea that Sera might not have been in such a state in the first place, had you not turned her away when she came to you?”

“That’s preposterous,” Leliana says, and focuses on that. It is absurd, truly, and it cuts through everything else, every other dark thought, gives her something simple and mindless to think about. “The two had nothing to do with each other.”

Josephine clears her throat. “Are you quite—”

“Yes,” she snaps, cutting her off. “I am ‘quite certain’, yes. We both know she only came to me because you suggested it, and for no other reason. She was looking for _training_ , Josie, not a lecture about Andraste.”

True, yes, but still Josephine is looking at her as though she’s missing some crucial point.

Leliana understands, of course: this isn’t really about daggers or training at all, though perhaps it’s not really about Andraste either. It’s something deeper for them both, something infinitely more complicated. It’s about Sera and the way her hands shake when she looks at Leliana, the flush of rage and frustration, the childish outbursts when she fails. It’s about finding her in the chantry, heaving into the dirt, looking up at Leliana and begging for Andraste’s mercy. And, no, it was not because she came to her in search of such things; it was because _Leliana_ came to _her_ , because Josephine insisted that she do so, because…

…because, apparently, Josephine understood exactly what Sera needed.

And, yes, perhaps it is about Leliana as well, entering the chantry on non-Inquisition business for the first time since the Conclave, thinking of words like _defile_ and _Andraste_ , and feeling the old faith flare up, and the old rage too. Perhaps it’s about her as well, coming to terms with what it means, Sera and her harmless mistakes, and the so-called Hero and the decisions that still cut into Leliana’s heart like a blade. Perhaps, yes, and again she finds herself shaking her head, again she finds herself annoyed, thinking, _always so clever, Josie._

Josephine, for her part, merely shrugs and lets the gesture speak for itself. “Simply put, she was looking for something that you are best equipped to provide. You, or perhaps Cassandra. That is no coincidence, Leliana.”

“Cassandra?” 

“Oh, yes. Her skills in the melee arts are second to none, from my understanding. To say nothing of… other insights she possesses.” She doesn’t need to be any more specific than that; Leliana understands, and growls her disapproval. Josephine, of course, smiles. “Hm. Perhaps she might have been the wiser choice, after all…”

It’s deliberate goading, Leliana knows, but that doesn’t stop her from rising to the bait. “Perish the thought,” she mutters. “She’d eat the poor girl alive.”

“All the more reason to trust you instead, then, wouldn’t you say?”

Leliana sighs, refuses to give in so easily. “She’s a distraction.”

“And you are a woman who desperately needs one.”

She shakes her head, more annoyed than she should be. “The Inquisition—”

“Not this again!”

Josie throws up her hands; it is not often she allows anyone to see her ruffled, but she allows it now, perhaps deliberately. _This is what you have reduced me to, Leliana,_ or some other such melodramatic nonsense. Certainly, it’s not beyond her.

“You’re the one who keeps pushing it,” Leliana says. “It certainly isn’t me.”

Josie huffs, presses on. “Look at yourself. Look at your reflection, and look at Sera. Tell me you do not see the likeness between you. Tell me you do not see the _potential_. There is a chance here for two people — two people who have known very little comfort in their lives — to find some measure of common ground, to help each other see beyond themselves.” She sighs. “I know how you felt about Justinia. It is no secret to anyone, least of all those of us who know you best. But she would not want you to let your grief and anger destroy you. She would not want you to lose sight of the purity, the heart that she saw in you. Would she not be the very first to say _‘this girl could benefit from a friend like you’_? Would she not be the first to look at a ‘distraction’ like Sera, and say _‘this is exactly what you need, my Nightingale’_?”

Leliana bristles, more upset than she’d care to admit. “You can’t possibly claim to know what Justinia would have wanted for me.”

“I do not. It is not my place to do so.” She looks so sad, and suddenly very tired. “But I know what _I_ want for you, Leliana. As a friend, a confidante, a great many things. And I believe… I have faith that Justinia loved you deeply enough to want the same.”

Leliana closes her eyes. Such a deliberate word. _Faith_ , as though such a thing is ever so simple.

She tries to picture Justinia, her mind’s eye a blur of tears; it has not been very long at all since the Conclave, since her passing, yet already she finds herself struggling to remember her face, struggling to mark out the familiar lines, the crinkles about her eyes and mouth, the way she transformed entirely every time she smiled, softening into something breathtaking, something beautiful. She can scarcely remember her voice any more, her gentleness, the strength in her hands when she touched her shoulder, her arm, when she took her by the hand and whispered pieces of the Chant. The wounds are still raw, open and bleeding freely, and yet the harder she thinks, the less she can remember.

_Is this truly what you would want for me? Someone who defiles Andraste’s likeness and then claims to seek answers? Someone who says she wants to better herself and then spends the day playing childish games, who laughs when the world is ending and you are gone? She is a distraction, a waste of time, and I… oh, Justinia, I cannot afford the softness she awakens in me._

“Leliana.”

“I don’t know,” she says aloud, and it is unbearably true. “I will help her, yes. I promised I would, and so I will. But oh, Josephine, this is not…”

“It is not the path you imagined yourself taking. I know. But perhaps it is the path you _should_ take. Sera has questions, yes, difficult and painful questions. You, Leliana… you are the first person she should be able to bring them to, the first person she should trust with such matters. You are the Left Hand to the Divine, and not so long ago you would have been the first one to reach out, to offer guidance and comfort to someone like her. Not so long ago…”

“A _lifetime_ ago, Josie.”

Josephine shakes her head. “Not so. Her struggles are not unlike yours, and yet instead of seeking you out directly she comes to me first, stuttering and stammering and frightened when I mention your name. Instead of seeking succour with the one person who should offer such things freely, she drinks herself into a stupor, so desperate for answers that she would debase the likeness of the very woman she prays to. What she did to the statue… Leliana, it is not a crime, it is a _symptom_. Her faith is in the same state as yours. That you deal with these things differently is of no consequence. At its heart, yours beat in time.”

 _Impossible_ , Leliana thinks. Sera is young and silly, and she doesn’t understand anything. She doubts because she is confused, because the world is being torn apart and she needs to know why. She doubts, yes, just as Leliana doubts, but their reasons for doing so could not be further apart. It is an insult, an offence, and she turns her anger on Josie.

“She is nothing like me.”

“Agreed,” Josephine says. “But _you_ were once like _her_.”

“A lifetime ago,” she says again, and it hurts more every time she says it. “A lifetime of death and loss and treachery. A lifetime of watching good people suffer and evil prevail.”

Josie studies her long and hard. “That lifetime is not over yet, Leliana.”

“It might as well be.” She bows her head, hides her tears under her hood. “The Chant tells of the Maker’s Light… but He snuffed out the only light I had when He allowed Justinia to die and condemned me to live.”

“That is a terrible thing to say,” Josephine whispers, quietly horrified.

“I know that.” She does, of course. “But what else am I supposed to say, Josie? What else am I supposed to _feel_? Justinia was all I had, the only glimmer of light and hope in a world that has shown me nothing but darkness and despair. Without her, there’s nothing left. No light, no hope, no…” She shakes her head, takes a deep breath. “The Leliana you speak of is dead. Surely even you must see that. She died at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, if not the first time then certainly the second, and I… I can’t afford to think of her any more. I can’t afford to see her face in Sera’s eyes, her youth and her exuberance and her… her _light_. I can’t afford to look at her and see how far I’ve fallen.”

Josephine is silent for a very, very long time. Her eyes are dark, damp with sorrow, heartbreak that runs far deeper than it should, as though every one of Leliana’s losses was her own as well, as though she has been through all the suffering, all the pain and tragedy, as though she knows it as intimately as Leliana does, as intimately as they know each other. Such a thing isn’t possible, they both know that, and yet the pain in Josephine’s eyes is so familiar, so terrible and tragic that Leliana feels it right down to her soul.

When Josephine does speak, much later, all she has to say is, “Sera.”

Of course, she doesn’t need to say more than that. Perhaps if she were someone else, even Cassandra, she might have needed to, but she is not; she is _Josie_ , and Leliana understands her as clearly as if the thought was her own.

“I can’t be what she needs,” she says.

“I am not asking you to be.” The sorrow ignites in them both, lit up like lightning. “I am simply asking you to let _her_ be what _you_ need.”

Leliana chuckles, bitter and violent. “Oh? And what is that?”

Josephine takes her by the hand. The warmth and tenderness is lost to the crack of leather, the thickness of Leliana’s gloves, but she holds on as tightly as if there was no barrier between them at all, as though they were both exposed and open out here, as though all the armour and all those years were washed away without a trace.

“A distraction,” she says, and her smile is as beautiful as it is broken.

—


	4. Chapter 4

—

The following morning, Leliana finds Sera already hard at work.

She’s showing admirable concentration, locked in on one of the training dummies as though there was nothing else in the world. Blessedly, she’s using her daggers in the appropriate way this time, stabbing and slashing as though yesterday’s little tantrum never happened at all, and she’s clearly been at it for a good long while. Hours, almost certainly, judging by the look of her; her tunic is patched with sweat, breath ragged with exertion, and she has a very serious look on her face. She is focused, yes, just as she promised she would be, so much so that she doesn’t even notice Leliana’s approach, doesn’t notice anything at all except her target.

It’s a good position, so far as Leliana’s concerned, and she uses it to observe, taking stock of her performance without the risk of shattering her inevitably fragile concentration.

Sera is much steadier on her own, though that’s hardly a surprise given her discomfort when she’s being watched. That said, she’s certainly unpolished, and in dire need of training; it is readily apparent, even from her shadow-stealthed distance that she would be far more comfortable with a bow — or, yes, even throwing knives — but she makes the most of what she has, what little can do, slashing and poking and using both hands as evenly she can.

Leliana can’t help but admire her dedication and stamina, if not her talent; slashed from head to sternum, the dummy appears to be hanging on by a thread, though the ‘wounds’, such as they are, lack finesse. If it was a living target, made of flesh and blood instead of straw and sacking, he probably wouldn’t have even noticed he was being hit; oh, his clothing would be torn to shred, casualties of war, but the man himself… no, no, _he_ would be fine. Not exactly ideal, she muses sadly, for someone hoping to fight demons.

Still, though, it’s a far cry from yesterday’s frustrated yelling, and when Leliana watches her hands she finds that they’re hardly shaking at all.

It feels almost like a shame to interrupt her, honestly. Knowing her as she does, Leliana predicts the moment long before it happens: she will step out of the shadows, clear her throat, and all that steadiness, all that _focus_ will dissolve before her eyes. A shame, most definitely, but then why is she here if not to help with that? Sera won’t put an end to any enemies in her current state, dedication or no, and in any event she asked Leliana for this. What good would it do either of them if she stands idly by, a wordless observer, simply to spare the girl a few blushes?

So, yes, she steps forward, lets herself be seen.

“How long have you been out here?” she asks, and watches with a sigh as Sera’s hands instantly start to twitch.

“Piss!” She drops the daggers, of course, and the shift in her demeanour is painfully predictable. “How long have _you_ been here, Knifey? Sneaking up on me like I’m one of your frigging marks or something…”

“I did no such thing,” Leliana says, affronted. “It’s hardly my fault that you were too distracted to notice me, now, is it?”

Sera mutters a few choice curses under her breath, but doesn’t argue. “Whatever,” she grumbles aloud, and bends to retrieve her weapons. It’s deliberate, Leliana can tell, the way she keeps her face hidden, eyes shadowed by her hair as she says, “Well? Go on, then.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know, ueah?” She’s trying very hard to glare as she straightens up, but she’s not really succeeding. “Don’t need to hold back; I can take it. Give it to me straight.” She takes a breath, as though steeling herself, and Leliana works out what she’s asking in the split-second before she says the words. “How frigging shitty was I?”

Leliana chuckles, touches her shoulder. Sera flinches a little, but doesn’t back away.

“You need training, yes. But you know this already; it’s hardly news. Surely you wouldn’t have come to me if you were content to do this alone, poking and slashing at training dummies all through the…”

… _all through the night_ , she realises, and trails off.

Because, yes, as close as they are now, it is obvious. Sera might think she has a talent for hiding her less flattering parts, for keeping her face safely out of sight, but Leliana is the Inquisition’s spymaster and she did not earn that position through guesswork or blithe ignorance. As close as they are now, she recognises the lines under Sera’s eyes, the weariness that runs far deeper than a few hours’ worth of running around a stationary opponent, and though she’s not training now still her breath hitches and catches as though with exertion. She is worn out, yes, and it is not simply the product of too much exercise.

Apparently realising that she’s been caught, Sera flushes. “Wasn’t _all_ through it.”

“Sera…”

“All right, fine, whatever. It’s just… you said I have to focus and all that shite, yeah? Said I have to concentrate and work through and all the rest of it. And what… what was I supposed to do, huh? This place is a shithole. It’s dark and cold and stupid, and there’s no rich tits around to… ah…” She bites her lip, cutting off the word before she can say it, as though she really expects Leliana to throw her into the dungeons simply for thinking such a thing, as though she herself has not done far worse. “Uh. Anyway. Point is, this place is shit and I was bored.”

“And it didn’t occur to you to perhaps get some sleep? To rest up, at the very least, in readiness for today’s session, rather than exhausting yourself to the point of uselessness?” Leliana sighs, reaches out to push Sera’s hair back a little; the cut is uneven, the edges frayed, and the Orlesian fashionista in her weeps at the sight. “Sera, surely there is a a balance between drinking until you lose consciousness and staying awake the entire night to stab inanimate objects.”

“Not really,” Sera mumbles, and stares very hard at the ground.

Leliana sighs. “Well, then, perhaps we should work on that too, yes?”

She doesn’t need to look at Sera’s face to know that such a thing is not so simple as it sounds. Sera has a lot in her head, not unlike Leliana herself; she doesn’t need to spend as much time as she has in her company to know that. Her lack of social grace, her easily-distracted nature… it all points to this, to someone who has too many thoughts and not enough of a mind to hold them. Leliana, of course, understands more intimately than she’d care to admit, though her own coping methods tend to lean more in the other direction.

In any event, she recognises something in Sera, and knows even without pushing the subject further that the idea of sleeping sound and safely in a warm bed, of forgetting the chaos of the world outside, the madness of the world within, that the idea of settling down and silencing the thoughts and the fears and doubts is just as impossible for Sera as it is for Leliana herself. More to the point, the little troublemaker is apparently still too sharp-eyed for her own good, and perhaps she sees some of the same in Leliana, because all of a sudden she’s smirking.

“ _We_?” she presses, and raises an eyebrow.

Leliana chides her, of course, a sharp look and a hiss of her name. She’s aiming for discipline, of course, but there it is again, that subtle shift, the flicker of affection. Still even as she says it like a reprimand, “ _Sera_ ,” still somehow she finds herself smiling to see the heat rising on Sera’s face, the flush colouring her cheeks, the shy little smirk that dimples the sides of her mouth. Still, though she tries to be hard, _still_ she feels herself softening.

“What?” Sera, of course, cuts right through the sharpness, the reprimand, finding the softness as easily as if she was born to do it. A Player in nature, if not profession. “Like you’ve got more than five minutes of sleep this week? This frigging month, even?”

Leliana snorts, and the softness dissolves to defensiveness. That Sera’s point is valid is, of course, utterly irrelevant; it is not her place to call out the Inquisition’s spymaster on her sleeping habits, or indeed on anything else. It is her place, frankly, to behave and do as she’s told, and so Leliana draws herself up to her full height.

Sera is tall by elven standards, true, but she is still markedly shorter than the average human, and in any event Leliana is an expert in making herself appear larger and more formidable than she is. Too much time spent with Cassandra, she supposes, who comes off as intimidating even when she’s trying not to be; it’s simple enough to emulate some of her tics, to tighten her shoulders where she might normally leave them loose, to draw her feet together where she would otherwise keep them apart. Little things, but they make a large difference when put together, and it certainly has the desired effect here.

“My behaviour is not in question here,” she snaps, stepping forward to crowd her. “And even if it was, it wouldn’t be your place to question it.”

Sera blanches. She’s visibly frightened, no doubt more from the height than the words, and has to swallow very hard before she can speak. “Right,” she manages after a moment. “ _‘No-one questions the Nightingale’_ , innit? You gonna shaft me?”

“Tempting, but no.” She takes a step back, lets the matter drop. It is such a difficult balance, she thinks, to stifle the softness without inciting terror. “If only because I suspect Josephine would shaft _me_ if I did.”

“Right.” Sera swallows, knuckles turning white as she squeezes her daggers. “Lucky for me, yeah?” She forces a laugh, but it’s weak and shaky. “You’re frigging scary, you know that?”

Leliana forces herself to laugh. “If you think so, then I fear for your safety once you venture out into the world. There are holes in the sky, demons everywhere, mages and templars at each other’s throats… the list of threats is endless. If a harsh word from me is enough to scare you, perhaps you should think of returning to Val Royeaux instead, yes? I hear blissful ignorance is in fashion these days…”

“Piss on that.” She’s scowling, rebellion pouring off her in waves, though it does little to still the tremors in her hands; a good show, Leliana supposes, if she were facing anyone else. “Didn’t ask for advice, did I? Asked for frigging help. Can’t fight all that stupid shite if I’m stupid and shite too, can I?”

“A fair point,” Leliana concedes. She closes her eyes for a moment, forces herself to soften just a little. Not much, certainly not entirely, just enough that Sera loses a bit of her ghostly pallour, that her fingers loosen around her weapons, that she almost manages to look her in the eye. “Very well, then. Shall we see what you’ve got?”

Sera musters a grin. It’s feral, defiant, and completely feigned.

“Bring it on,” she says.

—

Unsurprisingly, Sera’s bravado does not hold up under scrutiny.

Leliana goes easy on her. As easy as she can go, anyway, which perhaps isn’t very; she’s spent too long playing the Game, too long gambling with people’s lives, and holding back does not come easily to her. Even with blunted blades, she could count out a hundred or more ways to leave Sera pleading for mercy, or perhaps worse, and it takes every ounce of self-control to ignore the instincts that tell her to try those things, to push Sera beyond her limits, beyond anything anyone would ever expect of her, to force her to improve or face the consequences. _‘Tough love’_ , she called it once, and Josie sighed and claimed it was brutality.

Perhaps it is, or would be, but it is so difficult to be gentle, to put herself in a situation like this, the flash of steel and the adrenaline of combat. It’s difficult, yes, and all the more so when she’s still fighting against the softness that rises up when Sera drops her daggers, when the twitching in her hands becomes too much, when she turns her face away, frustration and shame turning her cheeks dark. She can’t be hard and soft at the same time, but every one of her instincts is screaming that wounding the poor girl would be better than losing herself to such compassion. It is so very difficult to ignore that instinct, to ignore them both.

As hard as Leliana struggles to hold back, it seems that Sera struggles just as hard not to. She’s focused, yes, and attentive; she’s everything Leliana has told her she must be, but apparently some part of her is still frightened as well, because every swipe, every jab or thrust, everything she does comes up short.

She tries, yes, biting off quips and crude comments as easily as anything, but the false courage doesn’t reach her body, and she flinches away every time. It is pitiful, in its way, and Leliana has no idea how to rectify it; Sera is clearly too afraid to attempt a true blow, too afraid of what the sinister Sister Nightingale will do to her if she so much as scratches her precious armour. It is clearly a problem, yes, and Leliana tries not to think too hard about the possibility that it might not reflect solely on Sera.

“Sera!” she barks, when yet another slash comes up short, missing her armour by a good three hands. “If you truly want to learn, you must treat me like you would a real enemy. Hesitate like this in close quarters with a demon, and you’ll be dead in a heartbeat!”

Of course that doesn’t help. Sera turns deathly pale and almost faints right there on the spot, mouth dropping open and twisting horribly to shape the word _‘demon’_. Leliana grimaces at the sight; evidently, she’s not the only thing the poor girl is afraid of, though that’s little help to either of them right now. She understands, of course; it must be terrifying indeed for someone so used to keeping her distance, shielded by her bow and sheltered by rains of arrows. Melee combat is nothing like that, neither safe nor simple, and for a rogue like Sera there is nothing at all to hide behind. She must come to terms with that, first and foremost, must process the fact she needs to be close enough to see the whites of her enemies’ eyes, close enough to feel their breath.

Sera will not do well in such a scenario; that much is blindingly obvious. In all honesty, Leliana rather suspects that her time would better spent trying to convince the poor girl of the fact, pointing out that this endeavour is beyond pointless, that she should stick to the skills she’s already mastered of wasting both their time on ones she never will. Better spent, yes, but the part of her that still weakens at the sight of her simply can’t bring itself to do such a thing, to break her spirit so cruelly. This is perhaps the first time Sera’s ever had the luxury of learning, of being educated, and she deserves a chance to fail on her own terms.

 _The Breach won’t wait,_ Leliana’s rational mind points out, crude and painfully honest. _Would you carry more deaths on your conscience, swallowed by demons or worse while you play teacher with her? Would you let others suffer again for your childishness, your indulgences? Send her on her way. Tell her this is pointless, then tell Josie the same thing. It is nonsense, a waste of time, and you know it would be best for everyone if you ended it here and now._

And yes, it would be. But no, she does not do it.

Still, she says nothing. Still, she grits her teeth, corrects Sera’s posture, reminds her about balance and focus, about seeing an enemy instead of a person, to fight for her life instead of someone else’s approval. Still, she ducks and dodges and pretends to parry blows they both know will never connect. Still, she allows the tug in her chest to grow, swell, swallow her whole when Sera’s hands twitch and shake, when her eyes find the ground instead of Leliana’s, when she flushes and curses and loses her temper. The frustration is pouring off her, the ache to do better tainted by physical ineptitude; it gnaws at her, so potent it’s all but tangible, so much so that Leliana finds it gnaws at her as well, and as desperately as she wants to end this, to wash her hands of it, still, _still_ she cannot.

At long last, when the faltering and flailing becomes too much to bear, she lowers her daggers. “Enough, Sera.”

Sera swears, jabs miserably at the air. “What? But—”

“ _Enough_ ,” Leliana says again, and makes it clear that it’s not a question, nor a matter for discussion.

“Ugh. Fine, whatever.” She looks up at her, eyes bright, brow damp with sweat. “Getting better, though, right?”

It’s a rhetorical question, or might as well be; clearly she already knows the answer. The defeat in her voice is heartbreaking, or would be if Leliana allowed herself the luxury of a heart in the first place, and there is an painful kind of petulance in the way she sticks out her lower lip, pouting at the ground as though it alone is responsible all for her faults. _Adorable,_ Leliana thinks, not for the first time, and chastens herself for showing such weakness.

She shakes off the thought, the feeling, forces a sigh instead. “Sera…”

“Aww, don’t say it like that. Still early days, innit?” She’s still pouting, though, and that makes it very hard to take her seriously. “And, hey, not my fault that you got that creepy ‘untouchable’ thing going on.”

Leliana snorts. “Perhaps not. But you’re afraid, are you not? And that is… well, it may not be your fault, but it is at the very least your responsibility to overcome it.”

“Pffft, don’t think so. You’re just a shite teacher, that’s all.”

It is so bold, so unfathomably brazen, and so surprising in the wake of so much fear and hesitation. It is so much of so many things that Leliana finds she doesn’t have it in her to be affronted. She simply laughs, loud and long and as genuine as she’s felt in a painfully long time.

“I beg your pardon?” she splutters when she’s done.

Sera huffs, crosses her arms. “You heard me,” she huffs. “Don’t know piss about shit like this, sure, but even I know you’re not supposed to play demon on the first frigging day. Got to build up to that, innit? Can’t expect some no-hope nobody to come in and be ready to take on that kind of shite fresh off the frigging boat. Don’t work that way. Not with normal people, anyway.”

Leliana opens her mouth to argue, then shuts it again, seeks out a better approach. “I see. You think I’m trying to intimidate you?”

“Bloody better be. All that hissing and growling and demon noises, all that _‘I’m going to cut out your tongue if you look at me funny’_ shite. What’s it about, then, if not that?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Leliana says.

It’s true, and far more so than she’d care to admit. Fact is, she genuinely doesn’t know what Sera’s talking about; she has no recollection of the behaviour she describes, of growling and hissing and whatever other nonsense she talks about with that sullen look on her face. It must be Sera’s imagination, surely? She is simply too quick to fear, hearing ‘demon noises’ where there is only the huff and puff of exertion, the grunt and groan of a working. Normal sounds for a training session like this, of course, so surely Sera is simply twisting them into things they’re not. Surely…

…ah, but there it is again, Josephine’s voice in her head. _She is afraid of you, Leliana_.

And, yes, perhaps it is true. To some extent, anyway. Perhaps there is even a part of Leliana that wants it to be true, that tries to be terrifying, intimidating, all those things that Sera sees in her. It wouldn’t be beyond reason, would it? She has spent so long hiding under her hood, shielded by armour and subterfuge, holding the world at arms’ length and doing everything possible to keep it that way. And isn’t there a part of her that relishes those cracks she sees in Sera? Some part of her, yes, feels itself relax in those moments when she can’t meet her eye, when her hands twitch, when her slashes and thrusts cut themselves short. It’s safe, she tells herself. Safer to be frightening than friendly.

She does have no idea what Sera’s talking about; that much is true. But it doesn’t mean that Sera isn’t right as well, doesn’t mean that she _isn’t_ doing those things simply because she has no memory of doing it consciously. Hissing, growling, ‘demon noises’, whatever that means. All of it.

Leliana doesn’t fight demons nearly as often as she should; she pitched in when the Herald and the others needed her after the Conclave, of course, but even then she found herself taking cues from Cassandra and the rest, the seasoned soldiers. The sad truth is, the battlefield hasn’t been her home in a very long time, since long before the last time she visited this place. Even something as simple as this is new, a straightforward training session, a silly spar. Harmless, yes, and foolish, but it feels unnatural, sets her teeth on edge.

Is it so impossible, then? Is it so inconceivable that she might, without even thinking of it, harness the one weapon she knows is still sharp? _Fear_ , yes. The one thing she knows will always land a killing blow.

“You’re weird,” Sera says, and doesn’t meet her eye.

“It would appear that I’m a great many things, yes?”

It’s more of an observation than a question, yet still she finds herself reaching for her, the daggers and the training all but forgotten, letting her fingers curl under Sera’s jaw, tilt her face up until she can’t avoid her any more, can’t hide like a coward, a _spymaster_ , until she has no choice but to catch her gaze, find the intensity burning there. She doesn’t need to look down to know that her hands are shaking, but she does it anyway, catches the tremors in her other hand. She’d swear she can feel Sera’s heartbeat, pulse racing as they lock eyes.

“What the—”

“Sera.” It surprises them both, the urgency in the name. “Do I frighten you?”

Sera swallows hard; Leliana feels the spasm in her throat, even through her gloves, imagines she can feel every nerve in Sera’s body, lit up and hypersensitive. She’s breathless, eyes wide, though whether that’s a product of the contact or the terror, Leliana can’t tell. Perhaps she doesn’t want to; neither is particularly flattering right now.

“Daft question, that, innit?” Sera manages after a moment. “You scare everyone.”

Leliana sighs, allows her shoulders to slump just a little, if only to let Sera see that she is indeed human. “I see.”

Sera ignores her. “Guess it doesn’t matter,” she mutters. “Scared of most things, me.”

“Oh?”

“What?” She laughs, bitter and angry. “Your Lady Ruffle-Tit never told you that bit?”

The insight is impressive, almost intimidating in a subtle sort of way. That she would know such a thing, realise that Josephine has been meddling, and without so much as a word about it on Leliana’s part… oh, but it truly is a shame that Sera was never given an opportunity to master the Game. Evidently, she could be quite proficient at it, assuming she could summon the patience and discipline required. _Fascinating_ , Leliana thinks, not for the first time, and schools her expression into a smile.

“Why do you assume that Josephine told me anything?”

Sera bursts out laughing, as though the very question is offensive. It’s a rough, coarse sort of laugh, one that almost doesn’t sound like laughter at all. It sounds like combat, the clash of a deflected blow or the weight of a sword on a shield; odd that a laugh could sound like either of those things, and yet here it is. Self-protection, not the armour of the frightened, but the armour of the brutalised.

“C’mon, Nightingale,” she snorts, voice thick. “Like you’d be here at all if she didn’t. Not that stupid, yeah?”

It is a very, very rare thing for Leliana to find herself speechless, and yet here she is, awestruck and no knowing what to say. She should leap in to contradict the point, she knows, cut Sera off before her self-esteem can sink any lower than it already is, insist if she can that she really is here for Sera’s benefit, to train her as she promised to do. She should, yes, but a mere glance at Sera’s face tells her that the effort would be futile; her uncanny insight equals her prowess with the bow, it would seem, and her easily-distracted nature doesn’t stop her from noticing things she shouldn’t. Again, Leliana finds herself thinking that, with enough of the right kind of training, a different kind to this, she could quite easily incite fear instead of falling prey to it.

She doesn’t deny it, as much as she’d like to; such observation merits a reward of sorts. “Perceptive.”

“Have to be,” Sera says, almost to herself, and doesn’t elaborate. “Point is, we both know you’re only here because Milady Prissy-Pants told you to be. Bet she said you had to play nice or she’d confiscate your assassins or something, right?” She grins, but she still can’t bring herself to meet Leliana’s eyes, so the expression falls somewhat flat. “Anyway. Yeah, you’re scary. Yeah, I’m scared. But so frigging what?”

“Sera…”

“No. Shouldn’t matter. I’m putting in the work, yeah? Doing everything you told me. Shouldn’t bloody matter if I’m scared or not.”

“It does matter,” Leliana says, with as much patience as she can muster. “You ask me to teach you, yet you cringe and flinch with every slash. Even now, you can’t look me in the eye. As you said, I’m no demon, but how do you expect to stand a chance against a real one on the battlefield if you can’t even find the courage to stand against me in relative safety?”

Sera huffs, tosses her daggers to the ground and hugs herself. She keeps her hands out of sight; maybe she’s noticed the way Leliana watches them, counts the twitches. It makes no difference; even hidden, the tremors shiver up her wrists, up to her elbows. She can’t hide them, arms unsteady where she squeezes her ribs, and Leliana doesn’t hide the way she watches, even now.

“That’s on you, not me,” Sera mutters. “Being scared of stuff that’s scary: that’s frigging normal, innit? Wouldn’t have to be scared if you weren’t scary. Wouldn’t have to be… if you weren’t… if they weren’t… if…” She twitches, not just her hands but her whole body, like a shudder or a kind of spasm, like she wants to choke but is too afraid. “If stuff stopped being so frigging _scary_ …”

This time, when the softness rises up in her, Leliana doesn’t fight it. She lets it claim her, lets it take hold of the half-dead places inside of her, the kick in her chest and the bubbling in her stomach; all of a sudden, she wants nothing more than to wrap herself around Sera, protect her if only for a moment from all the things inside of her, the fear and the shaking, everything that makes her feel so small. It’s been a very long time since she felt this way, and longer still since she allowed it. So long, yes, since someone else’s discomfort touched her so deeply, so intimately that she would forget all her decade-long reasons for ignoring such things.

It takes every ounce of strength she has to stay where she is, every ounce of restraint to keep from tackling the poor thing and pulling her into her arms. “I see,” she says instead, and lets the syllables steady her, lets them linger on her tongue like the memory of something sweet. She closes her eyes, blocks out the tremors wracking Sera’s limbs, blocks out the parts of her that ache to remember gentleness, that ache to _be_ gentle. “I can’t stop the world being frightening, Sera. You know that, yes? You are a clever girl and you must know—”

“Woman.”

Leliana frowns, thrown for a moment. “I beg your pardon?”

Sera clenches her jaw until it turns white. “You keep saying _‘girl’_. Like I’m some stupid little…” She shakes her head. “But I’m not. Been around. More places than your frigging Ruffle-tit, that’s for bloody sure. And being scared of scary shit doesn’t make you small. Doesn’t make you some daft kid, not when the monsters are frigging real.”

“Ah. Yes, of course. I’m sorry.” Odd, the violence of her reaction, but Leliana doesn’t dwell on it, doesn’t allow Sera to dwell on it either. “Anyway. My point remains, yes? I can’t protect you from the world. Is that not why you joined the Inquisition in the first place? So that you might regain some amount of control over your own fate? So that you might claim some power over the demons and the Breach and whatever else lies out there waiting to consume you in the darkness. The monsters _are_ real, as you say, and you must—”

“That.” She’s turned white again, not only her jaw and her knuckles but all of her. “That right there. _Scary_.”

Leliana sighs. A fair point, perhaps, but again hers remains valid. “You know, if my methods are so distasteful…”

“Piss on that.” She says it very quickly, almost urgently, and Leliana can see the panic surging in her again, the fear of being rejected, of being cast aside and then told it’s for her own good. “I mean, uh… not going nowhere else, yeah? Not a frigging coward. And anyway, Milady Ruffleskirt says you’re the best, and that… that’s what I want, yeah? Not going out there after no frigging demons with some pisshead nobody’s training. Want _yours_.”

“Even though I frighten you?”

“Sure. Can’t hide from everything that scares you, yeah? Can’t…”

But she trails off, and Leliana can see the fear in her again, sees the bravado shatter and the truth shine through.

This won’t get them anywhere, she knows. They can train like this for days, even months and still get nowhere. Training is built on trust, on mutual respect, and while there might have been a time not so long ago when Leliana would have thrived on Sera’s fear, wrapped it around herself and worn it like a cloak, she can’t do such things now. She is no demon, no monster, and if Sera cannot see that…

Well, then, perhaps she is right. And perhaps Josephine was right as well.

 _‘For a start, she is afraid of you,’_ she said. _‘Would that not be a good place to begin?’_

Perhaps, after all, it is.

—

She brings Sera to her quarters.

Her true quarters, that is, not the weather-beaten tent-space she’s taken for her office. As Sera so deftly observed, she has scarcely used the place, and certainly not to sleep. Ever since their arrival, since the Inquisition descended on Haven and claimed the town as its base of operations, she has avoided the place almost as pointedly as she tries to avoid the chantry. The room is hers, in name and in everything else, but she’s had no use for it, and in any case solitude and silence are not friends to her at the moment.

In truth, though she knows it upsets the likes of Josephine and Cassandra, she would sooner while away even the coldest nights out there under the canopy of her tent-office than in here, cramped and closed off and with no company but those endless unwanted memories.

No doubt Sera understands such feelings, because she doesn’t question it. The room has clearly never been used, never even been touched, and yet the only remark she sees fit to make is that it would make a nice place for some of the refugees they’ve taken in from the Hinterlands. A thoughtful gesture, and Leliana makes a note to do something about that the next time she gets a chance; it would make a nice change, she thinks, helping people to stay alive instead of sending them to their deaths.

Sera stands in the corner, makes herself as small as possible; it’s obvious that she doesn’t quite know what to expect, what possible reason Leliana would have for bringing her here. No doubt some part of her is half-expecting to be killed right there where she stands. Amusing, though perhaps valid given the Nightingale’s reputation, and Leliana doesn’t waste either of their time in trying to reassure her.

At long last, Sera swallows, speaks with obvious effort. “So, uh…” She tries to laugh, but it comes out like a whine. “We here for a reason? Or… uh…”

Leliana chuckles, keeps her distance. Sera’s breathing hard, clearly trying to keep from panicking, and approaching her now won’t do either of them any good; let her have her space, if it helps her to feel safer. Her hands are twitching again, all the more violent with neither the daggers nor the outdoor chill to distract them, and Leliana has to bite down on the urge to take them in her own, cover them and warm them. She forces herself to turn away, to speak slowly and carefully.

“We’re here for a reason, yes.”

“Grand.” The word is a quiver. “You, uh… mind telling me what it is?”

Leliana sighs. “You… Sera, if you are afraid of demons, of the Breach, of whatever else is happening in the world, I’m afraid that’s down to you. All the training in Thedas won’t help you—”

“Know that,” Sera interrupts, and keeps her eyes locked on Leliana’s bed. “But hey, piss on me for wanting to put up a frigging fight, yeah?”

“That’s not what I said. Nor is it is not what I’m trying to say.”

It is maddening, the way she always assumes the worst. Sera is so prickly, always assuming that she’s under attack, never giving anyone the benefit of the doubt; even when it’s all in her mind, she acts as though the whole world is against her, as though Leliana is being intentionally cruel and not simply trying to help. A part of her wishes she could break through those barriers; the rest knows far too well that it isn’t her place.

“Right. Sure you’re not.” Still, she swallows again, tries to keep herself under control. “So… what, then?”

Leliana closes her eyes for a moment, steadies her own thoughts. “If you’ll hear me. Those fears are your own. All this… ‘scary stuff’, as you put it… it won’t stop being scary simply because you want it to. You know that, yes?”

Sera chews her lip, visibly struggling to keep from lashing out again. “Know it,” she huffs. “Frigging hate it.”

“Indeed. And understandably so. But my point is, perhaps you were right about me as well. Perhaps you were… not wrong… to suggest that it lies with me as much as with you, that I should try to be less intimidating, less… frightening.” Sera’s ears prick up, visibly, and that bolsters her a little, makes it easier to get the words out. “If we are to train together, truly train together, you mustn’t be afraid of me. You must be able to trust me. On many levels, yes. You must trust that I have your best interests at heart, trust me to see your weaknesses, to see the moments when you fail, trust that I will not mock you for such things, or hurt you, but that I will help you to overcome them. I can’t help you to improve if you are too frightened to try, hm?”

“Guess not.”

Leliana allows another sigh. “Josephine says that I am frightening. She says that I prefer it that way. Perhaps I do.”

“Easier, innit?” Sera swallows, a loud sound that makes Leliana think of the chantry, of too-loud noises in too-quiet spaces, of prayers that will never be heard no matter how loud they are. “Easier, being scary than scared.”

Leliana doesn’t respond for a very long time. Sera is incredibly small, pressed against the wall and staring wide-eyed down at the bed, and though she’s making an admirable effort at keeping her body from shaking, still her hands betray her just as they always do. Leliana wonders how in the world she can shoot arrows as straight and clean as she does; she’s seen her with a bow, and knows that the praises lauded on her are far from empty. Sera is truly talented, even gifted, and yet to look at her now it’s a wonder to even imagine such a thing. If she tried to nock an arrow in here, she’d probably end up decapitating them both.

That, Leliana supposes, is perhaps her fault as well. And, yes, Josie is right: it’s all well and good, being the ‘scary spymaster’ and locking herself away from prying eyes and potential distractions, but this sort of thing is harmful to others. Sera sought her out, sought _help_ , and instead of providing it as she promised to do, Leliana finds that she’s only making things worse. She didn’t want this, didn’t ask for it, and yet here she is just the same and it is her duty to do this right, to do it well.

She can’t deny the way that Sera makes her soften, the way she makes her almost want to forget the darker parts of her, the parts that _want_ to be frightening. She can’t deny the way Sera makes her smile, truly smile in a way she hasn’t since long before the Conclave. And, yes, perhaps Josie was right about that too: perhaps it is not enough to simply teach; perhaps she truly must learn as well.

“Sera,” she says, and waits for her to look up at her.

It takes a long moment, Sera swallowing compulsively a few times, fingers flexing in front of her, as though it’s taking everything she can to keep from clenching them into fists, or perhaps yanking the sheets from the bed and fisting them instead. Anything, clearly, to keep herself busy, to keep from looking at Leliana. So, yes, she waits until the discomfort passes, until Sera finds her courage and looks up, until she finds her face, finds the shadows cast by her hood over her eyes, waits for her to take it all in…

…and pulls down the hood.

It is painful, albeit predictable, the way that Sera immediately turns her face away again, colour draining, as though Leliana is as terrifying without the hood as she is with it.

“Uh…” Her voice is a rasp, a whimper. “That… you… face…”

“Indeed.” Leliana chuckles, turns her attention to the straps and buckles of her armour, unfastens them with clean, practiced familiarity. “There is a reason, you know, why we Bards employ the art of seduction as often as we do.”

That gets Sera’s attention; she whirls back, staring with her mouth wide open. “You frigging _what_?” She clears her throat, tries again. “I mean… uh… that what this is, then? _Seduction_? Because—”

“Absolutely not.”

She’s very careful not to laugh, but the clarification doesn’t stop her going further. Unfastened, she sets to work removing her armour. Gloves, boots, chainmail, all of it, in careful order.

“You… uh, you sure about that?”

Leliana does laugh then, but keeps it gentle. “Simply making a point, that’s all.”

“Yeah? And what frigging point is that, then? Because this… you…”

She trails off, stammering, and Leliana chuckles. “The point, Sera, is that nudity makes for a very effective equaliser.”

“A what, now?”

The lack of comprehension is hardly surprising. Sera struggles with basic concepts even at the best of times; that is no discredit to her — given her tendencies to be preoccupied, it’s a miracle she absorbs as much as she does — but it remains valid. She has trouble understanding simple things, and faced as she is now with a slowly stripping Sister Nightingale, it is hardly a surprise that what little remains of her faculties are all but fried. Leliana flatters herself that she at least still has _that_ going for her.

“It makes one less intimidating,” she explains. “Less frightening and more… well,, more _equal_ , as I said. To use the Bardic arts as an example, if I may. It is difficult to believe that someone will slip a knife between your ribs when theirs are on display, yes? One seldom anticipates assassination from someone who is laid bare and open before them. You see?”

“I guess…” Sera’s eyes are as big as saucers. “Maybe… uh…”

Leliana chuckles, casts off the remainder of her armour, begins work on her underclothes. “It throws your target off-balance, makes them believe they are in control. You see?” The briefest glance at Sera’s face makes it abundantly clear that _‘in control’_ is about the last thing she’s feeling right now, but she presses on anyway, because this is a game she knows all too well. “Exposure, Sera… it makes even the most terrifying creature appear timid and weak. Harmless, if you will. And certainly not frightening.”

“Right…” Sera manages; she sounds, and indeed looks, like she’s about to faint. “Yeah…”

Leliana shakes her head, presses on. “Remove the armour, the hood, the shadows… remove the parts that are ‘scary’, as you say… and what is left?”

Sera’s reply is instinctive, a tremulous, blurted squeak. “Tits?”

Leliana laughs. “Accurate enough, I suppose. Enjoy the view, if you like.”

“What, really?” Sera laughs too, high-pitched and nervous; her hands are still twitching and sweaty, but the flush rising to her face is a far cry from the pallor of a moment ago. “Just… what, stand here and stare at your privates like it’s… like you’re a frigging painting or something?”

“Why not?”

“Because…” She flounders, and this time when she averts her eyes Leliana recognises the heat lighting up in them. Sera is as hot-blooded as anyone she has ever met, and it is difficult indeed not to be affected by something like this. “Because it’s frigging _weird_ , innit?”

“Is it?” And this, _this_ is the important part, so she closes the space between them, presses close, makes her point not just with her words but with her body. Sera’s clothes are thin; there’s no way she doesn’t feel everything, every line and every mark on her skin, bared before another person for the first time in years. “Are you still frightened of me?”

Sera licks her lips. Her hands give another violent twitch, fingers shaking as she traces the lines of Leliana’s ribs. Leliana wonders if she’s thinking of knives, of how easy it would be to slip one into the space between them. If so, it doesn’t stop her from taking advantage of the proximity, pressing their bodies between them, hands splayed across her midsection, fingertips ghosting the undersides of her breasts. Leliana allows it without a word, waits for an answer.

“Scared of _something_ , all right…” Sera manages at last.

Her voice is breathy, warm against her throat, her shoulder, and Leliana… _oh,_ she did not anticipate the way this closeness would affect her, the sudden heat flushing her own skin, as hot as Sera’s if not quite so dark. Certainly, she did not anticipate a moment where she might find herself unable to hide such a thing.

It’s been so long since the last time she did this, so many years, since she found herself into a place like this, laid herself open before someone else, all her flaws and imperfections on display. Like a painting, yes, just like Sera said. It’s been a very, very long time since she used her body in such a way, a tool and a weapon in its own right, and longer still since she allowed someone else to touch it.

She was not prepared for the intimacy of this. Sera’s reaction, yes, of course; the heat in her eyes is no surprise given what Leliana knows of her tastes, but the way it affects _her_ is certainly unexpected. She played the Game for what feels like half her life, put herself in exactly this position more times than she can count, and she did not expect to be so… out of practice.

It takes her by surprise, yes, steals her breath for a moment or two and leaves her scrambling to compose herself. Sera’s eyes rake over her, just once, then drop the floor; Leliana has played out this scene a thousand times, a million, again and again and again she’s done precisely this… but, oh, it’s been so long, and she’d all but forgotten how it feels. And this, _yes_ , the way Sera looks at her, the way she touches her, hands shaking over her ribs, the way it makes her wonder if she can feel her heartbeat… _this_ , yes, and it shouldn’t make her feel like this, shouldn’t make her feel anything at all, but it has been so long…

Sera isn’t the only one trembling now, she realises. The exposure, the vulnerability, the _equality_ that she’s been stressing so heavily… suddenly, inexplicably, it is not a performance.

“I…” Sera’s fingers dance across her ribs, and Leliana feels the heat ignite, flaring in her as well.

She catches Sera’s hands, holds them in place. “Sera…”

She means it gently, means it to be a kind of encouragement. She means to channel all those things Josie keeps talking about, all those things she’s avoided for so long, kept hidden under hoods and cloaks and chainmail; she means to take advantage of her nudity, to bare more than just her body but the soft places that Sera’s already brought out in her. More intimate in its own way; it is so difficult to hide in a place like this, open and visible, and all the more so in front of someone like Sera, who is so open herself. She’s still fully clothed, of course, but every inch of her body is tentative and trembling, and Leliana doesn’t need to see her skin to know that she’s flushed from head to toe, doesn’t need to touch her to know precisely what she’s feeling.

And, yes, she knows that the reverse is true as well; Sera’s hands are warm, fingers spread, palms flat across the curve of her ribcage, and Leliana doesn’t need to see the heat in her eyes, doesn’t need to hear the breathlessness to know that Sera can read her just as easily, that Sera knows all the things _she_ is feeling, that she truly is laid bare, _exposed_ in every possible way.

It is not Sera who is frightened now, and they both know it.

“I…” Sera manages again, a choked-out whisper that sounds like a plea, a prayer, like any one of the reverent whispers that Leliana used to thrive on. “I… I mean, we… I mean, you… I… _shite_ …”

“Sera.” Leliana’s voice is shaking too, and impossibly small.

“I… uh…” Sera swallows hard, pulls back. Cold air floods in to replace her palm, her fingers, and Leliana feels her ribs tighten, squeezing her lungs in her chest, already missing the contact. “I should… I should go… yeah?”

 _No_ , Leliana thinks. _No, you shouldn’t._

But her voice will not listen, and it cuts through them both, as keen as any knife and just as quick to find the heart.

“Yes,” she whispers. “Yes, you should.”

—


	5. Chapter 5

—

Blithe fool that she is, she goes to Cassandra.

Of course, she knows perfectly well that Josephine would be the more logical choice; she is, after all, empathetic to a fault, and not even Cassandra knows Leliana as well as she does. Still, even just the idea of broaching this subject with her is enough to make Leliana’s eyes water; she can already see that sickly-sweet smile of hers, the crinkles at the corners of her eyes when they light up with mischief, the wicked grin when she denies it.

No, that will not do. And in any event, Leliaan couldn’t endure the inevitable outcries, the insistence that _‘this is good for you, Leliana!’_ and _‘you should open up more, Leliana!’_ and, perhaps worst of all, _’I told you so, Leliana!_. Josie is a good friend, truly, perhaps the closest Leliana’s had in a very long time, next to Justinia, but sometimes that blissful idealism of hers is more painful than she will ever admit.

Cassandra, at the very least, is pragmatic. She will recognise the danger here, where Josephine would only see her dear old friend coming out of her shell at long last. She will understand that a Bard’s integrity is everything, that there is no excuse for losing control so completely in such a delicate situation; she will recognise that it is not as simple as Josephine would make it, that there is no room for emotional compromise in such moments.

Well, she’d _better_ , anyway.

Leliana finds her near the training grounds. She’s watching the Inquisition’s latest recruits running their drills and murmuring quietly with Cullen. They’re not much, the recruits; most of them came from the Hinterlands, a rag-tag bunch of mostly refugees, but they have Cullen’s approval, and that’s good enough. In any event, they’re working very hard, pleased to have something productive to do and grateful for the chance to take their fates into their own hands. No doubt this is the first time in a very long time that they’ve had such an opportunity, and Leliana wonders if perhaps Sera could stand to learn a thing or two from them.

Cassandra notices her immediately, of course, and waves her over with an odd look on her face.

“Alone today?”

It’s a careful question, and very pointed. What she really means, they both know, is ‘ _have you injured her?’_ , or perhaps _‘have you given up on her yet?’_. Cruel, perhaps, but given what they both know about Sera’s lack of follow-through, hardly without precedent on either count.

“For the time being,” Leliana says softly. “If you’re not too busy here, I thought I might steal a moment?”

Cassandra frowns, perhaps sensing the guardedness in her; even by her usual standards Leliana knows that she’s being vague, and to someone like Cassandra that’s an instant red flag.

“Are you well?” she asks, characteristically leaping to the worst possible conclusion. “Is Sera? Maker’s breath, did you decapitate her? Did she decapitate _you_?”

Leliana tries to laughs. “I’m standing right here. What do you think?”

“Ah. Yes, of course. Well, then, what is it?”

There is no sense in sugar-coating it, she supposes; the truth will out in due course anyway, and the direct approach is often the best when dealing with Cassandra. “It’s simply… well, I fear you might have been right.”

“I usually am,” Cassandra retorts, and almost allows a smile. _Almost_. “And the sooner the rest of you realise that, the better for all of us.”

“Oh, Andraste, not this again…” That’s Cullen, of course, as quick to show his smile as Cassandra is to hide hers. “Quick, take her away before she starts the _‘if we did things my way…’_ speech again, and scares off the rest of the new recruits. We’ve already lost six.”

Leliana musters a chuckle, but it’s wan, and a far cry from her usual. She still feels too exposed, not vulnerable exactly, but on display, as though everyone can see everything, as though she’s still in her quarters, naked and bare and with the whole world in there with her, studying her every blemish under a lens. An odd feeling, yes, and one she’s not accustomed to. She has never been shy about her body, could never afford to be; to a Bard, it is as useful a tool as any other, and she learned years ago the importance of not feeling ashamed. This is new, unpleasant, and of course Cassandra notices immediately.

“What is this about?” she asks, voice hushed.

“Come,” Leliana says, taking her by the arm.

They find a secluded spot, a short walk from the village gates, peaceful and overlooking the lake. Peaceful, yes, but more importantly a spot with no chance of disturbance or distraction. Bad enough that she needs to have this conversation at all, but to be overheard by some wandering recruit… or, worse, _Josie_? Leliana shudders to think of it. In any case, the peace and quiet does little to quash the embarrassment, the shame as she tries to explain, and the beautiful view is not nearly enough to distract her from the look on Cassandra’s face.

It is about as gruelling as she expected, recounting the details with all the clinical clarity of a mission report, but still she takes some small measure of comfort in reminding herself that this is the least awkward option. It has been a long time since Leliana allowed herself the luxury of sharing such personal moments with anyone; indeed, it has been a long time since she had any personal moments to share in the first place, and while Cassandra is certainly the best opinion,still it’s humiliating in its own right.

After all, _‘I wanted to help her to face her fears’_ only goes so far when it comes coupled with _‘so, naturally, I disrobed’_.

Cassandra keeps quiet. She waits for Leliana to finish, wrinkling her nose at the way she spares no details, then sits there in silence for a painfully long time. Knowing her, she’s dragging out the uncomfortable silence on purpose, making a point of making Leliana as uncomfortable as she herself is. A kind of vengeance, petty thought it is, and honestly it’s nothing less than Leliana would expect from her; Cassandra may be the lesser of two evils, so far as her meagre choice of confidante goes, but she’s still a Seeker of Truth, still a pious and righteous woman, and if there is one thing in the world that she abhors it’s…

…well, _this_. All of it.

It’s a while before she speaks, and when she does the disgust in her voice is matched only by the look on her face. “Are you utterly insane?”

Leliana snorts, but doesn’t deny it. “There’s no need to say it like that. It was a perfectly valid technique.” Cassandra quirks a brow, makes a disgusted noise. “Ah, in theory, anyway…”

“A ‘perfectly valid technique’,” Cassandra echoes, not bothering to hide her disbelief; the honesty is somewhat refreshing, though it does little to ease Leliana’s embarrassment. “Indeed. Why, I can scarcely count the number of times I was told during my Seeker training that the best way to combat my fear was to—”

“—picture it naked?” Leliana offers, peevish, because she will not back down from that, will not deny that the idea was valid even if the execution left something to be desired. “Do you expect me to believe you have never received such advice?”

“Not literally!” Cassandra lets out a pained groan, as though this conversation is more than she can endure. The woman has fought off demons, bears, even dragons without so much as breaking a sweat, but _this_ it appears is beyond her. It might almost be comedic, if it wasn’t such a blow to Leliana’s ego. “By the Maker, Leliana, what in the world were you _thinking_?”

“I—”

“That was rhetorical.” She shakes her head, despairing. “Honestly. Sera is skittish enough as it is, without any help from you. Surely you must know this. You have spent time with her, have you not? I assume you have, at the very least, _met_ her.”

“Cassandra!”

“Do not _‘Cassandra’_ me, Leliana. It is nothing short of a miracle that she did not end up face-down on one of the surgeon’s pallets, crying _‘demon!’_ at the very thought of your unmentionables. Were you _trying_ to kill her?”

“Of course not!” She doesn’t bother trying to hide her huffiness. “But I had to do something! She could scarcely even hold the blade when she knew I was watching. Even you must concede that such a thing is scarcely conducive to a functional training environment. If she can’t even get through a day without being frightened of _me_ …”

“That is her obstacle to overcome,” Cassandra says, perhaps a little unfairly. “ _Hers_ , Leliana, and it is frankly a mystery to me, why you saw fit to drag yourself into her problems in the first place.” She sighs. “But then, I suppose that is your affair, not mine.”

Leliana grimaces. That last part, at least, is more than valid; she has, after all, been thinking the very same thing almost from the moment Josephine dragged her into this. _‘I have more important things to do, Josie!’_ and _‘I don’t have time for this, Josie!’_ , as many arguments as she could think of, anything to get herself out of this. Indeed, only a day or two ago she would have happily agreed with Cassandra’s assertion, yet now somehow she finds herself feeling quite the opposite. She is inexplicably defensive, perhaps even a little angry. Cassandra may be right, and perhaps yesterday’s Leliana might have felt vindicated to hear someone else say such things, but today she finds herself defending the whole foolish incident as though it really does make any kind of sense.

“She needed help,” she says. “I simply thought—”

“No.” Cassandra’s voice is a whip, sharp and cutting. “It is quite clear that you did not.”

Another good point, Leliana supposes, and given the circumstances she doesn’t try to argue. In any event, the wisdom or stupidity of her behaviour isn’t the problem. That she chose to strip down, expose herself in a feint at making Sera more comfortable… that is neither here nor there, and whether it had the desired effect or not she is certainly not ashamed of it.

They haven’t spoken since, of course; Sera fled the scene as soon as she was given permission, red-faced and squirming, and Leliana took only the necessary time to cover herself before wandering off in search of Cassandra, a rational-minded confidante to work through her own jumbled feelings. She has no idea what’s going through Sera’s head right now, but if the look on her face as she ran away is anything to go by, she is certainly not frightened.

No, that is not the problem. Given the choice, she might yet do the very same thing again, and not regret it for an instant. The problem, of course is her own reaction. Unprofessional, yes, and unacceptable for a Bard of her talents. The heat still rises every time she thinks of it, colouring her cheeks and warming other places. It is still, even now, difficult to remember Sera’s breathiness, the fire behind her eyes, the way her hands shook in an entirely different way, difficult to remember those things and not feel her own breath quickening, her own pulse racing. A kind of fear, yes, but a very different kind, a _safer_ kind, at least so far as Sera was concerned.

Not for herself, though. She is a thousand leagues away from what Sera is, young and impressionable, a silly girl with silly ideals and a body that reacts too quickly to too little. Leliana is older, wiser, and she has trained in arts that Sera can’t even imagine. That she would even consider reacting in the same way, that her body would betray her so thoroughly in such a position, that she would find herself reduced to such things, to breathless and tremors, to little more than Sera herself… _that_ is the problem, not her damned nudity.

“My methods are not the problem,” she says aloud, eyes on the lake even as she feels Cassandra’s on her. “I stand by them, and time will determine their effectiveness. The problem is…”

But it is hard to say, hard to get the words out, and she leaves it there with a shake of her head and a sigh that vibrates through them both.

Cassandra sighs as well, impatient and vaguely annoyed. “It is _you_ , Leliana.”

True enough, and Leliana acknowledges. “Yes.”

Another sigh from Cassandra, this one carrying rather more weight. “Did I not say you were coddling her?”

“This has nothing to do with—”

“Nonsense!” The word is a shout. Leliana finds herself grateful for their isolated position; the last thing she needs is the Chantry sisters getting hold of this conversation, and passing it on to certain well-meaning diplomats. Cassandra takes a moment, softens ever so slightly. “Do not misinterpret, Leliana: in and of itself, this is no bad thing.”

“Oh? Because, from the look on your face, I’d assumed I was being sentenced to live out my days in the cells.”

Cassandra chuckles, wry and dry. “Not at all. It is… well. The change, however ill-advised, is a welcome one. You have been so distant since the Conclave. Closed-off, angry… you send your people to the darkest and most dangerous corners of the world without so much as a thought for their lives. We… we have been worried. Josephine, myself… others as well. So do not think I am criticising. I am not. In truth, Leliana, this is precisely what you need, precisely what we all do. That you are letting yourself feel again, that you are allowing softer thoughts back in… in truth, it is a relief.”

Her expression darkens, though, and of course Leliana picks up on it. “However…?”

“However.” Another chuckle, this one lacking in humour. “ _Sera_ , Leliana? Truly? The girl is a powder keg at best, a cataclysm at worst. Of all people, _her_ …”

Leliana snorts her disdain. “You say that like this is about feelings,” she says.

“Is it not?”

“Of course not.” They both pretend not to notice the crack in her voice. “Sera is many things, Cassandra, and none of them appropriate. She is foolish and senseless, young and impatient, prone to public intoxication… to say nothing of her failings in other departments.” She thinks of twitching hands, white knuckles, a flush creeping up the back of her neck; she thinks of mumbled complaints, daggers dropped in the snow, petulance and whining. She thinks of a great many things, and tries very hard not to blush. “Clearly, this is not about _her_.”

“Clearly.”

“Why must you say it like that? It is as you say, no? This is about _me_ , not her. Clearly, there is something wrong with me, that I would allow myself to respond so inappropriately to such a situation. I have done this countless times, as you well know, and in all that time I have never—”

“Maker preserve us,” Cassandra mutters, interrupting. “You are as blind and foolish now as you were yesterday. Look at yourself, Leliana.”

It makes her think of Josephine, the words if not the tone. Josie was so quick to insist that Leliana and Sera were alike, that there was a kind of kinship between them, and here is Cassandra saying exactly the same thing, albeit with rather less approval. It is maddening, and Leliana finds herself wondering if the two of them have been speaking about this, if Josie has gotten her claws into Cassandra already. Perhaps not, given Cassandra’s tangible disdain, but still the similarity gets her heckles up, makes her defensive and prickly all over again.

“Nonsense,” she says, echoing Cassandra quite pointedly. “I wouldn’t be spending time with her at all if not for Josephine and her blasted meddling. She _insisted_ , forced my hand the whole way…”

Cassandra rolls her eyes. “Of course she did,” she says flatly. “That is what she does.”

There is something odd in the way she says it, something that runs deeper than the words themselves, obvious as they are. Were she at her best, Leliana would no doubt be able to pluck out the hidden meaning without so much as a thought, but she is far from her best right now; she is exposed, almost more so than she was with Sera, and that makes her slow and stupid.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demands.

“Only that our ambassador thinks with her heart instead of her head,” Cassandra says. “As you should know by now.”

True enough, and Leliana concedes the point with a shrug. “She believes she knows what’s best for us, yes.”

“And there you have it.” She makes a noise in her throat, deeply disapproving. “She is a romantic, Leliana, above and beyond all else. Are you truly surprised that she would encourage this… this _pairing_?”

Leliana chuckles. “Pairing?”

“You heard me.”

“I did.” But that is not the issue here, and she will not allow herself to be sidetracked. “She has always been that way. Idealistic, simple, as though the world were some exotic fairy story. She means well, truly she does… but she doesn’t always understand the stakes she’s playing, the lives she toys with. Not until it’s too late, anyway…” She shakes her head; the weight of the past bears down heavily on her yet again, but this time it’s not just her own history she’s thinking of. “Suffice it to say, it’s no coincidence that Josephine never mastered the Game as well as I did.”

“Few ever do.” There is a dark sobriety to her voice, and shadows under her eyes; it is not intended as a compliment.

“True enough,” Leliana concedes, thankful for the hood hiding her face.

Neither of them speak for some time after that. Cassandra turns away, studies the frozen lake; she marks out the places where the waves and ripples would dance if it were warmer, plotting out imaginary patterns with all the precision of a military stratagem. Leliana, for her part, casts only a cursory glance over the ice; she’s too busy watching Cassandra, searching her face for tics or signs, anything to betray what she’s thinking, what she’s going to say next, how much further she’s going to push, to goad Leliana into admitting to feelings that don’t exist.

It is shameful, really and truly. Once, not as long ago as she’d care to admit, she would have been able to plan out this entire conversation, would have directed every word, every moment, every breath, turned them all to her advantage, driven Cassandra exactly where she wanted her to go without so much as a thought. She would have cornered her into agreeing — _‘yes, Leliana, it was absolutely the sensible decision to disrobe in front of a skittish young woman with fear issues’_ — and even sympathy — _‘yes, Leliana, it is devastating to lose control of your emotions in a delicate situation; how terrible for you!’_ — without the least bit of effort.

Yet here she is now, staring blindly at a woman she should be reading as clearly as the weather, and wondering what comes next. Cassandra is sharp and sober like she always is, but Leliana is as dull and blunt as those blasted training daggers. She is confounded, frustrated, drowning in a conversation that she once would have mastered before it even started. How far, oh, how far she has fallen.

At long last, Cassandra turns to look at her. There is sorrow in her eyes, a kind of grief that makes Leliana deeply uncomfortable. She might not know precisely what’s coming, but she can tell in a heartbeat that it will be painful.

“You must let her go, Leliana.”

“Sera?” She forces a laugh, though her stomach is churning, chest tight. “Small chance of that, I’m afraid, with Josie breathing down my neck. Besides, I promised I’d teach her, and I honour my promises.”

“No.” Again that whip-sharp word, a knife slipped between the ribs, between the sheets, into so many forbidden places. “Not Sera. I am not your mother, Leliana, nor am I hers. Indeed, if I were, I expect I would have disowned the pair of you long before now.”

Leliana huffs a semi-sincere laugh. “Touché.”

Cassandra, of course, ignores her. “Ill-advised, foolish, whatever else it may be… so long as it is not _harmful_ , you can do as you like with her.”

“Why, thank you for your permission.”

“ _Leliana_.”

She bristles, more annoyed than she should be. “What?”

But, of course, she already knows. It’s written all over Cassandra’s face, the way she grimaces, the shadows falling to shroud her face, even the way she moves, shoulders squaring back, chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm as she slows her breathing, braces herself for something that will hurt them both.

“You are evading,” she says. “As you always do. You know what I mean… _who_ I mean.”

She does, yes. Of course she does, though that doesn’t make it any easier to bear. And no, she won’t say it. The word, the name, the lance that carves a path through her heart. In truth, perhaps she can’t. _Still_ can’t, even now. It hurts even to think of it, even to hear it said aloud, a prayer whispered brokenly in a darkened chantry, an oath on Cassandra’s lips or a promise on Josie’s, a hitching little whimper on Sera’s when she asks the questions that frighten them both. No, it hurts too much to imagine, to even think of shaping that name again, so soon.

“I…”

But Cassandra’s eyes are like onyx, dark and dangerous and utterly unbreakable. This will hurt her too, of course, but she will not shy away, will not be a coward like Leliana. Honestly, Leliana would prefer a blade between the ribs, prefer a lash or a blow, would prefer anything at all to the way her mouth twists, rending the air with both their pain. But Cassandra, now as ever, will not back down.

“ _Justinia_.”

Leliana hides her flinch like the professional Player she is. There are few left in the world she would ever allow to see her react to something like this, and as deeply as she respects Cassandra, as much as she might call her a friend, a confidante, as much as she would trust her even with this conversation, still she’s not ready to trust her with that.

So, yes, she hides it, hides her feelings just as she always does, just as she always has. _Always_ , yes, until Sera looked at her with fire in her eyes, until the heat of it spread to claim her as well.

“I am perfectly aware of the situation,” she says aloud, and tries not to think.

“I know you are,” Cassandra says, as gently as she ever says anything. “But knowing something is not the same as accepting it. Yes, you know as well as I do that Justinia is dead. Yes, you know, yet still you cling to her as though she were still with us. Still, you cannot bring yourself to accept the simple truth.”

“I…”

“Justinia is _gone_ , Leliana. She is _gone_ , and we who are left behind must move on. The Inquisition depends on us. Perhaps, given the Breach, the very world depends on us. And yes, it is a tragedy that she is not here with us, that she is not leading us as she should be. Yes, it is devastating, and yes, I mourn her absence with every breath in my body… but we cannot afford to dwell upon such things. We do not have the time. We do not have the _luxury_.”

It is nothing that Leliana hasn’t said before, every excuse she’s thrown at Josephine thrown back at her, as though she is the one who needs to hear it, as though she is the one who has been dallying and fooling around when the world needs saving and Justinia’s work remains undone. It makes her angry, makes her vision dissolve for a few moments to a flood of rage-bright red. It makes her want to lash out, not with her fists but with the very blades she’s been using with Sera. Blunt, yes, and harmless, but they would make such a keen point now.

“It is hardly a luxury,” she says, voice cold. “Every waking moment thinking of her, wondering if she would be proud, if she would be horrified, wondering what she would think if she could see us… if she could see _me_ now. Josie insists she knows what Justinia would want, but I… I try and I try, and I see nothing.” She turns away, torn between defiance and self-loathing. “If that is a luxury, Cassandra…well, I fail to see what comfort it’s meant to bring.”

“Luxury is not the same as comfort,” Cassandra says, but she softens just the same. “I know your pain, Leliana. Truly, I do. I too have lost people close to me, people who meant more to me than anyone else in the world. I too have believed, as you do now, that the world is a dark and hollow place, void of meaning without those who were once my light.” It cuts deep, deeper than Leliana would ever admit. “I know grief, yes, and I know loss. I know what you are going through, believe me.”

“Yes…” She is closer to tears than she has ever allowed in front of another person. “Yes. I do believe you.”

Cassandra doesn’t reach for her, but her fingers flex just slightly in her lap, as though it is a near thing. As close to a gesture of compassion as she is capable of, Leliana supposes, and musters a smile.

“Indeed,” she says. “But you cannot let this grief and loss blind you. You cannot question everything you think and everything you feel, cannot lose yourself to the darkness, the pain, the loss. You cannot stop at every turn for the rest of your life, look to the heavens and ask _‘what would she think?’_ or _‘would she approve?’_. She is dead, Leliana, and you… _we_ must live. You must let her go. Allow yourself this. _Sera_ , such as she is, and what meagre solace she brings you. Ill-advised, foolish, all of it; if it is truly what your heart wants, then take it. Find comfort in her.”

Leliana shakes her head. “I will not allow my personal feelings to interfere with my duty,” she says.

“You are doing that already,” Cassandra says.

“I…”

But what can she say? It’s true enough, no? Is that not what Josie has been saying, what she’s been trying to make her see? Isn’t that what all this is about? Not _Sera_ , the distraction of a foul-mouthed young woman with fear issues, but _Justinia_ , and the way Leliana cannot do anything without aching for her. And yes, it is interfering with her duty, with her life and the way she lives it. It is interfering with _everything_ , but she cannot endure the thought of turning away, of letting it go as Cassandra insists she must.

Cassandra sighs, gives in to the urge to touch her. She reaches across, yes, and takes her by the hand. They’re both wearing gloves, Leliana’s considerably thicker, so the contact might as well be non-existent for all the good it does, but that does not belittle the thoughtfulness. Cassandra struggles with any kind of compassion, she knows, and there is no doubt that this is very uncomfortable for her; in her own way, she’s as uneasy here as Leliana is, albeit with very different reasons.

How ironic, she thinks. It is only now, with the Divine dead, that her Right and Left Hands discover how much they have in common.

“Leliana.” Her voice breaks on the third syllable. “I do not know what you want from me, what you expect me to say about this. Sera is green and young, and unfathomably foolish. She flinches at shadows, trips over her own feet, sees demons and magic in everything. She is, simply put, a terrible choice. But if she is what you need… if she can give you back some small piece of what you have lost… well, perhaps there are worse ones.”

Leliana scowls. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You have every idea what I’m talking about,” Cassandra snaps. “You can scowl and shake your head and hide under your hood all you like, Leliana. You can deny that this is a matter of feelings until your dying day, insist that you are only training the girl, that there is nothing more to it than that. But denial does not change the truth. You know this as well as I do, and if you are simply here so that I might help you to continue deluding yourself, I am afraid you must look elsewhere.”

“I…” Leliana thinks of Sera, the heat rising in them both, of Josephine’s smug grin. “ _Merde_.”

Cassandra has the good grace not to smirk. “This has nothing to do with your talents as a Bard, or your reaction to a moment of intimacy. There was nothing ‘unexpected’ in what happened, Leliana, if only you had the sense to see the situation for what it was. This is nothing to do with weakness or other such trivial nonsense. Your feelings—”

“Feeling _is_ weakness, Cassandra!” She closes her eyes for a moment, focuses in on the rhythm of Cassandra’s fingers, drumming out nonsense tunes against her knuckles, tangible even through her gloves, lets it give her back some meagre measure of composure. “I cannot afford such things. I cannot… I…”

“Do not be absurd.” Hard, yes; she speaks to her like a recruit, raw and untrained. Unwarranted, perhaps, but it has the desired effect: Leliana sits up and pays attention. “There is no weakness in feeling, and no shame in it either. If a part of you, however ridiculous, feels connected to someone like Sera, then I frankly fail to see the problem. Bad taste notwithstanding, of course.”

Leliana snorts her protest. “I would hardly call it—”

“What you would call it bears no resemblance to the truth,” Cassandra points out. “In any event, where is the harm? Lady Montilyet evidently believes that the match is a good one, and while I would be the first to acknowledge that some of her decisions are dubious at best, still I trust her word as law when it comes to you. Ambassador or not, she has known you far longer than I have, and if she believes this foolishness is worth pursuing, then I defer to her. Of course, she also believes in adorning herself in ruffles, so…”

“It’s all the rage in—”

“Leliana.” Not so harsh this time, or so chiding, but it silences her just the same. “My point is that the only problem here is in your own head, your own stubbornness. You refuse, again and again, to accept even a moment’s relief from your self-inflicted misery. You cling to Justinia, and in the rare moments when you do occasionally allow her to rest in peace, you cling instead to your own pain, your hurt and grief and loss. That attitude… by the Maker, Leliana, it will destroy you if you let it.”

“It is not as simple as that,” Leliana says.

“It is _precisely_ as simple as that.” She releases Leliana’s hand, grips her shoulder instead. “There is nothing to be ashamed of, Leliana, in any of this. Not even, Maker preserve us, in choosing _Sera_.”

“She is not so terrible as you think she is,” Leliana says, and allows a fond chuckle.

“Perhaps not. Time will answer that particular question.” She huffs her disbelief, but doesn’t comment on it again. “In any event, know this: there is no weakness in seeking a source of light in dark times. There is no shame in finding a reason to smile when the world is dark and cold.” Her lips twitch, just a bit. “I know that I, for one, will be smiling about this for days to come. And I am certainly not ashamed of that.”

Leliana growls a warning. “If you mention this to anyone…”

“Yes, yes. Assassins in my bed. Blades under my pillow. You are not so intimidating as you believe, Sister Nightingale.”

Leliana thinks of Sera, of the way her hands shake when they look at each other. She thinks of the awkwardness in her slashes and thrusts, the way she could never bring herself to connect, to make a blow land. She thinks of the panic in her eyes, the way she blanched and turned her face away and talked about hissing and growling and demon noises, the way Leliana could not say with any certainty that it really was just her imagination.

She thinks of the way she threw daggers at training dummies, thinks of the excitement when she landed a hit, the way it resonated with those long-buried places inside her; she remembers her young high voice ringing out, loud and raucous as she laughed and whooped and cheered, remembers how quiet it got afterwards, when she said, _‘I just wanted you to see that I’m not shite at everything’_ , as though Leliana’s opinion was worth so much, as though she’d give everything she owns if only the sinister, scary Sister Nightingale would soften and smile and like her.

She thinks of the fire in Sera’s eyes, the way they lit up as she exposed herself, the way her breath caught, all the fear and panic melting away, blistering heat flushing her cheeks. She thinks of fingertips tracking her ribs, the way that heat ignited under her own skin, thinks of beauty and breathlessness and bare skin. She thinks of the way Sera looked at her, the way she touched her, the way the contact burned away everything beyond _them_. _‘Scared of something, all right,’_ she said, but she was not afraid of _her_.

“Perhaps not,” she murmurs, and pretends not to see Cassandra’s smile.

—

She finds Sera in the chantry.

Of course she does, and if she were in a more charitable mood perhaps she’d take a moment to consider how poetic it is to find herself here again, in the very place this all started, the very place that still makes her so uncomfortable. The Maker’s sanctum, yes, and here she is again, bracing herself to reconcile old struggles with new feelings, dying faith with a new kind of hope. Poetic, perhaps, but she is certainly in no mood to appreciate that now.

It’s late. The chantry is empty but for the two of them, though that doesn’t make it easier. Sera stands with her spine straight, hands clasped behind her back, staring up at the statue of Andraste; the statue, blessedly clean by now, towers over her, making her look incredibly small and far younger than she is. The sight of it makes Leliana ache in places she wishes she could leave to die, makes sorrow flare in her chest again, makes her wonder what in the world she’s doing, what madness has driven her here.

She is still not comfortable in the chantry, she realises. Whatever other small steps she might be taking, this place still makes her feel uneasy. Her footsteps echo on the stone floor, setting her nerves on edge, and though she knows she shouldn’t, still she feels like there is something insipid, something tainted in the way she stands here in Most Holy’s hallowed sanctum when she is dead and gone. Here she is, the Left Hand of a dead Divine, and instead of prayers and promises, her heart is full of doubt.

Focusing on Sera is the easy part, though the fact that it’s _here_ makes it a little harder. Still, it is far easier to look at her than elsewhere. It would be too much to endure, too much for her broken heart to take, to tear her eyes from Sera’s shoulders, her straight spine, to look up at the statue, to find Andraste’s face and think of all the ways she’s been defiled, all the ways Leliana allowed such a thing. Too much, yes, and a potent reminder of how fragile her own faith is.

So, yes, she focuses on Sera, pretends not to see the statue at all.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

Sera swallows hard; Leliana can’t see her throat or her face, but she can hear the sound as clear as anything, echoing in the empty chantry. It’s almost as loud as Leliana’s own footsteps, and it feels just as blasphemous.

“Wasn’t hiding, you daft tit.” She turns, lets Leliana find her eyes. “Came here for me, yeah? Not you.”

There’s an odd look on her face, somewhere between confusion and hope, and Leliana finds that it makes a part of her hurt, makes her ache to provide answers to the questions still burning in her. Astounding, she thinks, and so very tragic that a foul-mouthed deviant like Sera could enter the chantry with more faith and light inside of her than the Left Hand of the Divine.

“I see,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “How uncharacteristically spiritual of you.”

Sera bristles at that, affronted. “You what? Like you know me well enough to know what’s frigging ‘uncharacter-whatever’?” She hunches forward a little, arms wrapped around herself, squeezing her ribs; she makes a point of not looking at Leliana, but she doesn’t look back at the statue either. “Come here all the time, yeah? Even after, you know, _that_. Still come. Still…”

She trails off. Leliana reaches for her, then thinks better of it, finds her hand hovering in the space between them just as it did the last time they were here, awkward and uneasy. “Sera…”

“Mm.” Her eyes are in shadow. “Still got questions, yeah? And this… this is still the only place you’re gonna find answers. Only place with any chance of it, anyway. I guess. Maybe. Doesn’t always work out, but…” She shrugs, looking devastatingly vulnerable, and Leliana feels a twitch in her chest, guilt and shame in equal measure. “But, hey, let’s keep making this all about you, yeah?”

Leliana bows her own head. “I’m sorry,” she says. “You’re right. That was thoughtless of me.”

“Bloody right.” She lets Leliana see her shrug again, then turns back to the statue; she keeps her head bowed, though, eyes on the floor. “Look, did you want something or not? Because this…” She waves a hand at the statue, Andraste’s face high above her head. “Not any easier with you breathing down my neck, is it? Especially not after…” Another gesture, this one rather less polite; Leliana imagines the Bride of the Maker blushing and shielding her eyes. “Well, you know. The other _‘that’_. Not really Andraste thoughts, those…”

Leliana chuckles. “No, I suppose they’re not. Sera, I apologise.”

“For what? Showing off your bits?” She laughs, loud and unfettered, nothing like Leliana’s delicate little chuckle. “Like it’s anything I haven’t seen before, yeah?”

“Oh?” She smiles. “You say that now, yes. However, as I recall, at the time…”

Sera barks another laugh. “Well, _yeah_. Because you’re frigging fit, innit? Got to be bloody blind not to…” She trails off, clearing her throat, and the back of her neck turns red. “Uh. Anyway. Like you’re the first pretty woman to ever get my smalls in a mess, yeah? Like you’re so frigging special?” She snorts. “Please.”

“Flatterer,” Leliana deadpans.

Sera turns back around, mischief shining in her eyes. “Besides, not like I was the only one.”

And just like that, the tables are turned; just like that, it’s Leliana clearing her throat, Leliana flushing hot and pink, and not just in the places that Sera — or, indeed, Andraste — can see. “That’s not…” She coughs delicately, considers her words; she can’t very well say _‘accurate’_ , now, can she? “…appropriate.”

“If you say so. Got to keep your little ‘Nightingale’ thing intact or whatever, innit?” She shrugs again, but it’s tense, almost like she’s anticipating a blow. “Anyway, guess it worked, didn’t it?”

“Oh? How so?”

Sera grins, teeth sharp and feral. “Sure as shit not scared of you now.”

“Ah, then my work is complete.” She means it in jest, mostly, but it falls flat; Sera’s expression falters, and her eyes darken just a little. “With any luck, you’ll learn from this, no?”

 _With any luck,_ she thinks, _we both will_.

That part, of course, she keeps to herself. Sera still looks so small, dwarfed as she is by Andraste’s statue, the very statue that she claimed to have defiled, but it’s not only that; everything about her seems small, not just next to her surroundings, but next to Leliana herself. She knows that she shouldn’t push this, not here and not now, knows that she shouldn’t be leaning in the way she is, nudging Sera’s arm, both of them blushing and smiling and _Maker, no, this is wrong, this is the chantry, a place of worship, a holy place. It’s wrong, it’s sacrilege, it’s blasphemy. It’s… it’s…_

“Sure.” Sera’s voice is small, just like she is, and she sounds like she’s speaking from very far away. “I mean, learning’s shite, mostly, but _that_?” She whistles, high-pitched and nervous. “Could get behind that, definitely. Or, well, on top of it, I guess. Under it, maybe. If you ask—”

“Sera!” Leliana swallows, mouth dry, and reminds herself of all the reasons why this is wrong. “We’re in a chantry.”

“Know that.”

There’s a tremor in her voice now, so much like the tremors in her hands when she held her daggers, like the twitches and shy looks when Leliana stood by her side, tall and foreboding; Leliana wonders if she feels that way in here as well, if Andraste intimidates her as much as a jaded woman who imagines that she once knew the Divine. In an odd way, she finds it comforting; the Bride of the Maker, at least, is supposed to be daunting. For Sera, it is far healthier to look shaky in this place than out there, and yet when she looks at her she finds no trace of fear at all. Awe, yes, but that is all. It is… yes, it is _comforting_.

“Good,” she hears herself say, and doesn’t realise she’s said it aloud until Sera looks up at her, eyes brighter than they should be under the dim candlelight.

“It’s just…” She takes a breath, visibly willing herself to press on. “This is hard, yeah? Andraste and the… the Maker. All of it. Hard and weird and… and I want to say _‘stupid’_ , you know, because it kind of _is_ … but then I can’t say that, can I? Not here, because I’m not… because it’s… because she’s right frigging _here_ , innit? And I don’t… I…”

She shakes her head, moves a little closer to Leliana, and Leliana tells herself that it’s only to put some distance between herself and Andraste, to step away from the statue and not towards her, not…

“Sera.”

“Yeah.” She wears that word like a cloak, like Leliana wears her hood, uses it to hide her intentions. She is so incredibly close now, and she doesn’t seem so small when Leliana has all but forgotten the statue is there. “Doesn’t make sense. None of it. But _you_ …”

“I…”

“ _You_ do. Or, well, as close to it as I ever… I mean…” She bites her lip, looks right up into Leliana’s face, as though marking out the lines even through her hood. “You’re _real_ , yeah? Like, _really_ real.”

“I was the last time I checked, yes.”

Sera snorts. “Smart-arse. You know what I mean. You’re real and you’re here and that… I heard stories about you, you know? Weird shit, like… like maybe you shouldn’t be? Here. Or real. Or… or…”

Leliana thinks of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, of the first time. She thinks of waking in agony, of wondering why she wasn’t dead, why the Maker chose to save her as He did. She thinks of Divine Justinia, of the Conclave, of the desperate blasphemous prayers that poured from her unchecked; she would have given anything to trade places with Justinia then, and perhaps even now she would do the same. If He had any kindness in Him at all, the Maker would smite her there on the spot and let Justinia rise again instead, reborn and better and so much more deserving than a faltering and faithless Left Hand.

She thinks of miracles, or imagined miracles, of rose-petals and gardens and hope, of a Hero who became a villain in a single desperate act, of a hole ripped through the heavens, of mages and templars at each others throats, of the friends she used to know, innocent people caught up in the middle of it. She thinks of Josie, so idealistic and romantic, so unprotected. She thinks of all the things she, Leliana, needs to do, all the things she knows she cannot.

“I won’t ask where you heard such things,” she says to Sera. “But yes, you’re right. I shouldn’t be here.” She shakes her head, turns away. “In truth, it would be better if I wasn’t.”

“Nah.” Sera reaches up, knuckles brushing her jaw, fingertips against her cheek, tentative but not trembling. “Glad you are.”

“I…” She catches Sera by the wrist, pale skin all but drowned by the heavy leather glove, a barrier between them, armour and protection and power; she can feel Sera start to tremble again, different this time, not fear but something else, something pure and painful, and that soft part of her, the part that _feels_ and wishes it didn’t, aches to make it stop. “Thank you, Sera.”

“Yeah.” Eyes half-closed, breathing shallow, she is so unbearably close. “Point is, _you_ , yeah? Heard all about you, whispers and stories and all that shite, and you don’t… you don’t have to be like Mother Giselle or whoever to know that makes you special. You’re supposed to be bloody _dead_ , you know?”

“I am aware,” Leliana says, a little more sharply than she intended.

Sera doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink. “But you’re not. You’re _here_ and you’re real, and that’s… maybe that’s more than Andraste, you know? More than a lot of things that make my head hurt. You’re real and you’re here and you… you knew the frigging Divine, yeah? You know more about this stuff than anyone in the frigging world, maybe, but you don’t…”

She pulls her hand back, lowers it down to her side and stares at her knuckles. Leliana studies her face, brows creasing into a frown. “I don’t.”

“Yeah.” Another shroud, another hood, casting shadows over the deeper parts. “Look at you sometimes. See you, too. Not like… not like your Lady Ruffley does, but like… like _something_. Like the other day, yeah? Me all…” She makes a crude gesture and an unpleasant gagging noise, a reminder of the last time they were in here. “Yeah? And you all… you know, all pissed-off and creepy. _‘Don’t defile her likeness!’_ , and all that shite. But I saw you, and it wasn’t about that. Wasn’t about _this_ …” She points at the statue, but doesn’t take her eyes off Leliana. “Was about _her_.”

Leliana grasps at the only name she can. “Divine Justinia?”

“Pfft. No!” It’s a laugh, but not the kind that says she thinks this is funny. “Don’t know her. Never will now, I guess. Not like you. But that’s not…” She takes a breath, shakes her head as though to clear it, quick and sharp. “Look. Everyone keeps talking about our Lady Heraldy-Bits, all _‘survived the Temple of Sacred Ashes’_ this and _‘touched by Andraste’_ that. And that’s grand and all… but I think they’ve got it all backwards.”

“Backwards,” Leliana echoes. “The Herald of Andraste is… backwards?”

“No. She’s all right and all. It’s just… all the shite they keep saying about her, like she’s our only hope just because she got some glowing whatever on her hand. It’s not enough, is it? Not for _her_.”

That word again, _her_ , and this time Leliana understands. She thinks back to the last time they were here, Sera pale-faced and fearful in the dank dungeon. “Andraste again?”

Sera nods. “Just saying. Don’t think Herald’s one they should be looking at. Don’t think…” The fire in her eyes is frightening, brighter than the candles, passion and the kind of faith that shakes Leliana to her soul. “Don’t think _she’s_ the one who’s touched.”

“I…” Leliana is speechless, lost for words. “Sera…”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Stupid, right? Probably, but whatever. Just saying what it is. Or what it might be, I dunno. What I think, anyway. And it’s… it’s all mixed up in my head, you know? Andraste and… and all of it. But you… I seen you looking at it… at _her_ … like maybe it’s mixed up in yours too, like maybe you feel lost sometimes too, and it… I…”

She bows her head, but the flush on her face is inescapable; heat, yes, but something else as well, something more pure than Leliana would have ever given her credit for. She wants to validate the point, confirm that yes, she does feel lost here, that yes, this place is not the sanctuary it once was, that her faith is not the eternal flame it used to be, that she is not the person she should have become. She wants to confess all of that, let Sera see her for who she really is, see the silliness in what she’s saying, the absurdity in the way she’s looking at her. She wants to, yes, but she can’t.

All she can say is, “Yes.”

It’s enough for Sera. “Feels good,” she says. “Not being the only one, yeah? And _you_. All maybe-kind-of-touched _you_. Left Hand of the frigging _Divine_ … you…”

She lifts her head, lifts her whole body. They’re so close now, close enough that the tremors rocking through Sera’s body reach Leliana as well, close enough that she feels them even through her armour, vibrations against her skin, as intimate as touches. Close enough that it would take very little to close what little space remains, to fill up the air with something other than words and wishes and prayers to a Maker who might never hear. Close enough, yes… and Leliana feels their breath catch in perfect time in the space between their bodies.

“Sera…”

But Sera isn’t listening. She’s staring at her, wide-eyed and breathless, like she’s seeing her for the very first time, like the whole world has shrunk down to this, the two of them, here and now, to her face reflected in Leliana’s eyes. Sera’s are bright, shining under the candles, and there’s a shimmer of wetness that Leliana can’t ignore. Her hands are shaking again, trembling but not twitching as she lifts them both, knuckles white when her fists find the fabric of Leliana’s hood.

Strange, Leliana thinks, how intimate a moment like this can feel. Neither of them are naked now, and this is certainly not the place for such feelings. Candles and statues and marks of the Chantry all around them, the Maker’s word and His will, and both of them so lost, so longing.

And yet, as Sera tugs the hood down, reveals the lines of Leliana’s face, experience and suffering and death, bares the flush of her skin, lets it light up under the candles, lets them catch the tears in her eyes, reflect the Chantry symbols and Andraste’s graven image… no, they are not naked, yet this is as intimate as any moment Leliana has ever known.

“ _You_ …” Sera is breathless, whispering. “Not scared of you. You know?”

“I know,” Leliana says, and silences them both with a kiss.

It’s tender, tentative, and entirely chaste. Well, it would be if they weren’t here, in sight of Andraste; at any rate, it’s about as chaste as anyone could hope for in a place like this, a moment like this. Still, though, it goes on for far longer than Leliana expects, perhaps longer than even Sera does.

Sera is responsive, though that’s hardly a surprise. She moves with her whole body, melting against Leliana’s in a rustle of threadbare fabric against chainmail and leather and strength, lips warm and yielding, trembling like her hands, her voice, letting Leliana lead and guide her. Leliana rises, holds her close, arms sweeping across the plane of her back, palms steady in the hope that Sera’s limbs will take their cues and follow suit. But, no, Sera can only cling to her, hold on tight as though Leliana is the only thing keeping her upright, the only thing keeping her alive. Breathless, panting, and _Maker_ , it’s easy to forget what _chaste_ means in a moment like this.

It feels like forever before they pull apart, drawing back far enough for Leliana to find Sera’s eyes, ignite the fire in them. There’s heat pouring off them both, a kind that has no place in a chantry, and Leliana’s laugh is devastatingly husky when Sera sways against her, dazed and dizzy and utterly breathless.

“Praise Andraste…” Sera manages with a nervous, shuddering laugh.

It is an odd feeling, standing here before her, Andraste in all her glory, the very statue that Sera has already marked, damaged, _defiled_. It is an odd feeling indeed, standing here in this most hallowed of places, thinking of things that shouldn’t even enter her mind at all, of Sera’s eyes and the way they light up, her hands and the way they twitch and tremble, of so many things she should block from her thoughts in a place like this. It is an odd feeling, yes, being here of all places, with Sera of all people, and hearing Andraste’s name spoken in such a way.

Blasphemous, most certainly. In its own way, it is far more so than a little misdemeanour after too much alcohol and too many questions. That, at least, was understandable. Honest, if somewhat foolish. This, however? _This_ is blasphemy indeed. Utterly, inexcusably… and yet…

…and yet Leliana finds that she feels more faithful in this moment than she has in years.

“Yes,” she whispers, voice rich with all the warmth that she’s denied for so long. “Praise Andraste.”

—


	6. Chapter 6

—

Naturally, it’s not long at all before Sera sees her naked again.

They stumble out of the chantry, still clinging to each other. Sera’s giggling, high-pitched and giddy, but Leliana is all but silent; she can’t stop staring at her, awestruck when her eyes catch the moonlight, reflect it, all but blinded by the way the world seems to light up behind them, the fire and the heat and all the rest of it, the whole of Haven reduced to the smallest little pinprick, to here and now and them.

She’s not entirely how they end up back in her quarters, though somewhere between there and here she came to the realisation she doesn’t care. Sera is eager, open-mouthed and hungry, and she trips over both their feet as they move; she can’t keep her hands off Leliana, and Leliana… well, she is flattered and touched, yes, but more than that she finds that she _wants_. Not just in her heart or even her body, unaccustomed as it has become to flights of passion like this. Not just in the parts that make sense, but in every part, and she can barely keep up with her own churning thoughts, much less Sera’s.

In any event, she is the one who brings them here, her legs guiding them through the night-dark snow and driving them on. That much is inescapable; this place is hers, and so too is the elbow that catches the door, slams it shut behind them, the body that surges forward the instant they’re alone, that presses Sera’s against the wall, the mouth that kisses her until they’re both breathless. They are all hers, and she cannot deny them. Nor would she, even if she could.

There is a kind of reverence in the way they strip. Both of them this time, though Sera is just as wide-eyed now as she was the last time, just as awestruck and breathless. Her clothing is thin and ragged, not unlike the rest of her, body and heart and perhaps her soul as well; it is difficult to remove any part of her outfit without tearing, without causing more damage. The idea shudders through Leliana, cuts more deeply than she expects, more deeply than it should. Sera is fragile, so utterly fragile, and Leliana has all but forgotten how to be careful with fragile things.

Her own armour is solid, hard to get out of for one who doesn’t know its tricks, and Sera hisses and grits out curses as she tries. It is endearing, almost funny, but the laughter is short-lived; the slightest shift between them, fingers fumbling and clumsy, and there’s another tear ripped through her tattered tunic. _Fragile_ , Leliana thinks again, and sucks in her breath.

“Sera…” 

The name is all she manages, and scarcely even that much before Sera cuts her off with a violent kiss. Brutal and unapologetic, teeth and tongue, and she doesn’t hold back even a little. Leliana sees stars, dazed and dizzy, and braces herself against the wall, hands on either side of Sera’s head.

“Doesn’t matter,” Sera pants when she’s done, forehead pressed against Leliana’s, hands tangled in her hair. “Just clothes, innit? Don’t mean nothing.”

Leliana licks her lips, traces them with her fingertips. “As you say,” she says. “Sera…”

“None of that, yeah?” Her voice is thick, though whether it’s from the kiss or some deeper emotion Leliana can’t quite tell. “Not gonna break if you touch the wrong place. Not gonna…” Her voice does break, though, as fragile as the tremors in her hands, and Leliana’s heart feels dangerously close to breaking as well. “Whatever you got. Okay? Not scared of you.” Her eyes are dark, lust and passion and that ever-present need to prove her worth. “Not here.”

“I know,” Leliana whispers, and lets Sera drown the words in another desperate kiss. “I know, Sera, I know.”

They kiss again, and again, and again. Sera is so eager, so enthusiastic, so many things that Leliana is not. Most of all, perhaps, she is _urgent_ , as though the fate of the world hinges not on the Herald and her marked hand, not on the Breach tearing the heavens asunder, but on this, on Leliana, on her hands and her mouth and her body, on the places where they connect, sweat and skin and prayers hissed out between clenched teeth.

It probably shouldn’t surprise her as much as it does; Sera approaches most things this way, throws herself into whatever passes her by as though it is the only conceivable option, as though there is nothing else. She comes at everything with exuberance and gusto, as though every moment may yet be her last, and when Leliana pulls back to take in the sight of her, she finds her flushed and open-mouthed, eyes half-shut as though in pain, breathing hard with her face turned to the side. Overwhelmed, yes, not only by this, the physicality and the intimacy of what they’re doing, but by _her_ , Leliana, and how much she means.

Leliana tries to be gentle, for her own sake as much as Sera’s; it has been years since she allowed herself a flicker of sweetness like this, the press of another body to quiet the storms in her head, the intimacy of sharing more than just breath and space and whispers, of sharing _everything_. She wants to savour it, yes, of course, but so much more than that, she wants to show Sera that this matters, that _she_ matters, that perhaps when this is done _they_ will matter together. She wants this sweetness to taste sweet for both of them.

Wants it, yes, and tries so hard to let it show, but Sera won’t listen, won’t look, won’t allow herself to see. Perhaps she doesn’t care, or perhaps she simply wants something different. Again, Leliana supposes this should not surprise her.

Sera is fierce, furious, perhaps even feral. It is like their first meeting, that teeth-bared smile, the way she made Leliana think of an animal, trapped and unsafe. She goes at this like she goes at the training dummies, with fury and fire, sucking bruises onto Leliana’s skin, teeth flashing in the dark; she wants it messy, wants it rough, wants it the only way she’s ever known anything, and _oh_ , what a painful thought that is, _oh_ , how deeply it cuts to see her now and know where all this violence is coming from. So deep, yes, and so painful, but Sera doesn’t allow her to dwell on it, doesn’t allow her past to become either of their present.

Leliana could stand to learn a lot from that.

Because, yes, it’s not just Sera who is shaped by what she was, not just Sera who finds echoes of unwanted memories in everything she does. Leliana is the same, transformed by the things she’s seen, the things she’s done and endured. She is the same, yes, and it’s not as easy for her as it is for Sera to turn away from what she’s been, what she’s not any more. She can feel it humming beneath the skin, igniting in the places where the heat is starting to rise, turning simplicity into something complex, turning faith to doubt just as it always does, to questions that have no place here… and, inevitably, to _‘what would Justinia think?’_ and _‘oh, Most Holy, I’ve let you down’_ , to everything Cassandra says she has to let go.

Sera shakes her head, breath catching when Leliana chokes on her own. “No.”

“Sera…”

“ _No_.” Her tongue is relentless, carving a path between Leliana’s breasts, between her ribs, wet and flat against the place where her heart lies exposed. “Not that. Not here. Not now.”

“I…”

“ _Us_.” She shoves her down on the bed, forceful and pointed. _You’re here,_ she’s saying with her body. _We’re here, you and me; Justinia may be gone, but you’re not, and I am going to make you feel so alive_. “Us, yeah? Just us.”

And so it is. _Them_ , and everything that means, all the intimacy and urgency of a moment like this. _Them_ , yes, and it is so very difficult to think of anything else, to remember Justinia’s face when Sera’s tongue is pressed against her skin, intricate patterns that turn the sweat to something else, hard to remember the Divine’s voice when Sera is laughing against her, whispering all sorts of unspeakable things into the places where her teeth leave marks, lower and lower and lower. Difficult to think of anything at all, yes, when Sera is coaxing pleas and prayers from the locked-away parts of her, the parts that pray, throat and chest and _heart_. Difficult, oh yes… yet still Leliana finds another name on her lips.

“Andraste…”

Blasphemy, perhaps, but it doesn’t feel that way. She breathes it, believes it, again and again, eyes shut in the space between whimpers and moans, the kind of prayer that echoes with Cassandra’s words, faith that reminds her there is no shame in this, and when Sera looks up at her, laughs with her tongue out, circling Leliana’s navel, it is almost enough to undo her entirely.

“Really?” Sera asks, mischief shining in her eyes. “ _Her_? Now?”

Leliana chuckles, or tries to; it comes out as a rasp, a desperate keening sound, then cuts off entirely when Sera goes back to what she was doing, mouth moving lower still. “She— _ah!_ —it would hardly be the first time.”

“Oooh.” Sera peppers kisses to the junction between hip and thigh, little feather-light touches that make Leliana’s vision white out. “Hey, whatever does it for you, yeah?”

She exhales, breath warm and wet against the curls between Leliana’s legs. Leliana cries out, a halting little whine that ends with Andraste’s name again, and Sera’s laughter is positively obscene, tongue tracing patterns across slick skin. Unbearable, yes, but then she’s moving again, dipping lower, _lower_ , and Leliana sits up on her elbows, fights to ground herself, to remember where she is, where _Sera_ is, to replace Andraste’s name with a closer one… but, _oh_ , the things she does with her tongue, her lips… the things she _does_. Her thoughts are a hazy, vision a blur, and blasphemous or not, Andraste’s name is the only thing in her head.

She gasps it out again and again, lets the rhythm of her breathing catch against Sera’s tongue, sharp little pulses in the places where she’s slick and needy, feels the way Sera smiles. She lifts her hips, loses herself in the contact, in the obscene wetness of Sera’s lips and tongue, the press of her nose in places that jolt right through her, twisting Andraste’s name into something entirely new, nonsense noises that couldn’t be mistaken for anyone’s name, aching shuddering cries, desperation and want and need and _this_ and _them_ and… and…

“ _And there I saw the Black City, its towers forever stain’d_ …”

Leliana chokes.

It takes her a moment to fully register what she’s hearing, what she’s feeling, and honestly she’s not sure which is more impossible: that Sera is _whispering the Chant of Light to her privates_ , or that she knows the verses in the first place. At the very least, that she knows them well enough to use them _here_.

Perhaps, again, that shouldn’t surprise her. Given how much time Sera claims to have spent in the chantry, it’s hardly a miracle that she’d pick up a prayer or two… but it is so unexpected and so unfathomably sacrilegious that there is nothing Leliana can do but cry out. Disbelief, of course, but _oh yes_ , she can’t deny the arousal as well, the parts of her that pulse and twitch against Sera’s lips and tongue, that arch up in time with the syllables, the rhythm, the old familiar words, can’t deny the moments when she gasps and shakes, tightens and tenses in perfect harmony with the verses she’s whispered a thousand times.

“ _Heaven has been filled with silence_ …”

Perhaps, yes, but this room certainly isn’t. Leliana is not like Sera; she doesn’t curse or scream, doesn’t pour out her feelings in colourful metaphors, doesn’t turn the world different colours with her lexicon of swear-words. She doesn’t do any of that, no, but still she is hardly silent. She _feels_ , allows it all to wash over her, the physical sensation and the emotional, the prayer pressing hot and wet against her centre and the one echoing wordlessly in her head. No silence here, no room for it, and with the Chant of Light laved against her most intimate parts, with Sera’s tongue pouring out faith and fire instead of curses and questions, it is more than she can endure.

She comes to the end of the verse, to Sera licking _‘crossed my heart in shame’_ deep into her.

Ironic, then, that for the first time since the Conclave she finds that she doesn’t feel any shame at all.

It’s a long moment before Sera raises her head, and when she does she looks so self-satisfied, so outright wicked that Leliana feels another spasm jolt through her. Her lips are obscenely wet, and she takes great delight in licking them; Leliana watches, finds herself all but breathless all over again, hips shifting almost of their own accord. Sera catches the motion, of course, and her grin widens.

“Strange one, you are,” she murmurs.

Leliana tries to chuckle, but she’s too hoarse. “Oh?”

“Oh, you know. Cry for hours over a bloody statue, but get your smallclothes off, and it’s all about frigging Andraste.” Her eyes flash, the only warning Leliana gets before she dives back down to give one last stroke with her tongue. “Or, well, frigging _and_ Andraste, I guess.” She pops up again, scrambles back up Leliana’s body. “Unless you’re hiding her somewhere? Then we could—”

“No!” That is a bridge too far, even for Leliana. “No, I’m not hiding the Bride of the Maker underneath my bed. And, honestly, even if I _was_ …”

“Pfft. Bet she’d be well in.” She catches herself a moment later, flushing in a way that has nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with the sudden realisation of what she’s just blurted out. “Shite! She going to smite me for that? Didn’t mean… or, well… did mean it, I guess, but not in a… I just… uh…”

“Sera.”

“Right. Yeah, sorry. And, you know, to _her_ as well. Sorry.”

Leliana chuckles, surprising herself by how easy it is to dismiss this now. She, who balked and lost her temper just from hearing the word _‘defile’_ only a couple of days ago. She, who would have shaken this same young woman to within an inch of her life back there on the chantry floor, if she hadn’t been worried about another noxious explosion. She, who could scarcely endure the thought of standing in a chantry at all, who could scarcely hear the word ‘faith’ spoken aloud. _She_ , who now finds herself here, laughing, or close to it, as Sera takes Andraste’s name in vain, gasping and shuddering and shaking as she herself does the same thing, coming apart to the Chant of Light breathed in and out between her legs.

“I doubt she’d be offended by such a thing,” she says aloud, and it surprises her far more than Sera to look inwards and find that she truly believes it. “There are worse places to take her name in vain, yes? And if we can find a moment’s joy when the world is in chaos… honestly, Sera, I expect she’d approve.”

The truth of it strikes far deeper than she expected it to. It makes her think of Josephine, of Cassandra, of the people she calls friends and the way they insisted again and again that there was no shame in feeling, that there was no weakness in being human, in allowing moments like this, in finding a reason to smile through the chaos and the loss and the heartbreak. It makes her think of their faces, the way they looked at her, Josephine with her soft smiles and Cassandra with her hard lines and sharp edges; it makes her think of the way she looks at Sera as well, the way she’s always watching her hands, counting the tremors.

It makes her think of a great many things that she probably shouldn’t, makes her feel a great many things she certainly shouldn’t. Most of all, it makes her realise just how relative an idea like _shouldn’t_ truly is.

It makes her surge up, too, take Sera’s face in her hands and kiss her with all the strength and power and passion of a woman who has lost everything that ever mattered to her, everything she once held dear, who has forgotten everything she used to be, everything she should still be, a woman who has lost and forgotten _everything_ and is finally, slowly but surely, beginning to find those things again. Kisses her, yes, both of them breathless and desperate, both of them hungry and passionate and with something to prove, and when Sera whimpers into her mouth it is more than Leliana can do to keep from responding in kind.

Sera is the one who pulls away. She does it suddenly, with a loud wet sound, and bites down on her lip the moment it’s free. Panting, keening, she buries her face in Leliana’s shoulder, eyelashes fluttering against her skin, as though she’s embarrassed, ashamed of what she looks like, or perhaps just afraid of what Leliana will think if she sees her like this, flushed and heated and wanton. Her whole body is shuddering, and her fingers are like iron, sure and strong and completely steady for the first time since this all began; they dig into Leliana’s back, her shoulders, into any part of her Sera can reach, grasping and groping and groaning when she finds purchase.

Leliana holds her close, lets Sera press against her, doesn’t complain when her nails get sharp, when her eyelashes tickle the skin, doesn’t complain when Sera’s teeth find the curve of her shoulder. Sera clings, as responsive here as she was in the chantry, and she’s just as impatient now as she is when they train, muscles tight and breathing rough.

“Sera.” It sounds unfathomably intimate, whispering her name while she’s pressed against her, breasts against breasts and hips against hips. “What do you… what can I…”

It is not like her to stumble over words, and it’s certainly not like her to stumble over these particular words. She has been here before, knows the arts of giving, all of them, and she is not embarrassed. But Sera doesn’t even lift her head, and her voice is muffled, almost incomprehensible.

“Shh.” It’s a demand, not a request. “Don’t. Just…”

Her body is demanding too, and it finishes the sentence when her voice gives out. Leliana gasps, body rising as wet heat presses against her thigh, as Sera grinds down, hips rolling and breath hitching.

“Are you—”

“Said ‘shh’.”

Leliana nods, chin pressed against the top of Sera’s head. She holds her close, kisses feathered across her temples, her forehead, the few parts of her that she can reach. It’s a pointed reminder, the pressure and the slide between their bodies, the way Sera fits against her, the surprising strength in her thighs where they squeeze. A reminder, yes, of just how small Sera is, and how strong as well, so completely capable for all her smallness. They both know that Leliana could finish this quickly, could find her with her fingers or mouth, could finish her off with a stroke and a thrust and a few whispered words… but no, Sera will not allow it, will not allow Leliana to direct this as she directs her daggers.

Perhaps she’s trying to prove a point, prove her own merit just as she does when they train. Perhaps she wants Leliana to see, once and for all, that she is not some helpless silly girl, dependant and needy and hopeless, lost without Leliana’s guidance. Perhaps she’s making a different kind of point, letting Leliana see that in this, at least, they are equal. Perhaps…

…perhaps, after all, she simply prefers it this way. As simple as that, no? And, _oh_ , if only everything were that way.

Sera lifts her head, eyes half-closed. Her brows are creased, as though she’s hearing the thoughts, as though she can feel Leliana slipping into her own head, as though she knows the darkness that lies at the bottom of such things. She finds Leliana’s mouth, catches her lower lip between her teeth. Leliana pulls her close, tangles her fingers in the mess of Sera’s hair, holds their mouths together until Sera breaks away with another ragged moan.

“Andraste,” Leliana breathes. “You…”

Sera shakes her head. “Not her,” she mumbles, jerking her hips in rhythm with the words. “Not this time. Not Andraste. Not no-one. Just _you_ , yeah? Just you and me and _you_ …”

 _Just me_ , Leliana thinks, and wonders who that is.

She pulls back just a little, catches the half-light reflected in Sera’s eyes, sees every version of herself, the ones she’s tried to forget and the ones she doesn’t dare to remember, sees everything she was and everything she is, sees all of those things side-by-side for perhaps the first time.

 _‘Just you,’_ Sera said, but what does that mean to a woman with more names than friends?

 _‘Not Andraste,’_ she said as well, but Leliana doesn’t know who she is without that name on her lips, doesn’t know what to become without the Chant echoing in every part of her, doesn’t know how to reconcile the part of her that believes with the part that doubts. Andraste has been such a huge part of her life for so long, and even as she fights and struggles and doesn’t understand, even as she lashes out at the sky and begs answers from a silent Maker, still she calls out to His Bride, still she thinks of Andraste.

She died for Andraste’s sake. She _survived_ , twice, and told herself it was for her sake as well. Twice, Andraste’s name led her to a darker place, a darker world, and yet still she finds herself aching to say it again, to shape it in the sweat that trickles down Sera’s neck, to mark it out across the heat-flushed skin, to whisper the name like Sera whispered the Chant, painted across her flesh, staining the wetness with something pure.

Leliana thinks of tangled sheets, of skin and salt and slickness, of being here in an entirely different context. She thinks of blades, sharp and keen, not blunted like children’s daggers, thinks of the handle hidden beneath the pillow, blade shining between the sheets, thinks of the marks left in her palm where the grip nestled a little too tightly. She thinks of skin, sweat-soaked and slick just like this, just like _Sera_ , thinks of herself as well, one hand working down below and the other squeezing the knife above, high up in places no-one bothers to look. Her hands, yes, the right and the left, and _oh_ , the irony of that, and _oh_ , how fitting that it was always the left that held the blade.

 _Andraste_ , she thinks, and of course Sera hears it.

“Not her,” she whispers again. Her breath is hot, and so is her skin. “Just _you_.”

Leliana closes her eyes, finds Sera’s hands. They’re shaking but strong, fingers like iron when Leliana laces them together with her own, a tangle of tremors that complement each other perfectly. Sera’s fingers are thin, elven and bony; they keep Leliana’s busy, keep them still, keep them from remembering bloody deeds between clean sheets. The tremors stop, Sera’s fingers tightening around Leliana’s, and Leliana uses the tension to ground them both, to remind them both of who is here and who isn’t. _Not Andraste,_ that’s right, and she is not doing the Divine’s work now.

She rolls onto her back, pulls Sera over her, sweat stinging in both their eyes as she leans forwards, foreheads almost touching.

 _Me_ , Leliana thinks, again and again. _Me_ , and _us_ , because this is what matters. Here and now, that it’s the only thing that does. Sera, bent over her, sweat-slick skin so much like the memories, but no danger of a blade between the ribs when both of her hands are busy, the right and the left together, and maybe Sera senses that too, maybe she reads the memories in her, knows what Bards do, what Leliana has done, because she doesn’t hesitate. Her teeth are bared, a groan twisted into a grin, and she pins Leliana’s hands above her head, holds her in place.

Leliana laughs. She has to, because the alternative is weeping or, worse, saying _‘thank you’_. Sera is not strong; she’s quick, yes, and agile, but Leliana could overturn them in a heartbeat if she wanted to. They both know that, of course, but Sera isn’t stupid either, and she must know that this isn’t about domination, not about Leliana being held down but reminding her that she can be, that she has no job to do here, that this is about _them_ , not about _her_. Andraste, Justinia, all the people who have ever held a claim over her, everyone who ever defined who she is and what she does. They’re not here, but Leliana is. _Alive_ , yes, and she presses her back to the sheets to remind herself that they’re still clean.

Cassandra was right, she thinks, head spinning as Sera thrusts against her. There is no weakness in feeling this way; there is no shame in any of this. It is the purest, the truest, the _best_ she has been in years.

Sera comes with a wail, a shuddering sort of noise that pulses along Leliana’s skin and ignites her nerves; her thighs tremble where they clamp and clench around Leliana’s leg, and their palms slide, fingers locking vice-tight as if both of their lives depend on the contact, the connection, on skin against skin against sheets, not just in the intimate places but _here_ , in their hands, fingers tangled and palms slick with sweat, holding on for dear life, _holding on_. Leliana thinks of daggers twitching in Sera’s hands, of knives in her own, sure and true and finding their mark without a thought. She thinks of blood on the sheets, of Sera face-down in the chantry’s underbelly, thinks of how impossible it is that none of those things have any place here now.

“Leliana…” Sera is breathless but the name sets off another jolt, another cry, another jerking spasm. “ _Leliana_.”

Leliana is breathless too. “Yes.”

Sera’s strength gives out, everything flooding out of her, a last choked-out gasp that leaves her weak as her muscles go limp and useless. Leliana catches her almost without thinking, cradles her in her arms, and Sera’s jaw fits so perfectly in the crook of her neck. She does these things without even stopping to consider what they mean, the intimacy and the faith of such a moment; Sera doesn’t even think about it, doesn’t hesitate, just lets herself fall and trusts that Leliana will catch her.

She does, of course. But not so long ago, she would not. Not so long ago, the sheets would not be so clean. Not so long ago, Sera wouldn’t simply be breathless, but without any breath at all. Not so long ago… yet here they are, and this comes as naturally as that ever did.

Sera settles in her arms, sweat cooling on her skin, limbs shaking, and Leliana doesn’t think at all. Kisses, hot and wet, lips pressed to Sera’s palms, her fingertips, her _hands_. Trembling, twitching, but unafraid, and Sera is hiding her face, mouth wet and open against Leliana’s collarbone, eyes wet too but closed, eyelashes tickling her shoulder.

“Leliana.”

Leliana closes her eyes, lets the sound of her own name wash over her, ground her and lift her up at the same time. Sera’s eyelids flutter against her skin, a smile curving against her chest, and then she’s lifting her head, face flushed but beautiful, dishevelled but utterly perfect.

“Sera,” Leliana echoes, awestruck at the sight of her.

Sera laughs, straightens a little. “Don’t care what you say, yeah? You’re touched all right. Andraste or the Maker… don’t know, don’t want to know. Guess it doesn’t really matter either way.” She smiles, bright and earnest, more breathtaking than all the whispered prayers in private places, more breathtaking than anything Leliana’s ever known. “You’re touched.”

Leliana leans over, presses her lips to her cheek, chuckles against the skin. “You touched me.”

Sera flushes at that, hot and uncharacteristically uncomfortable. “Not like _that_ ,” she whines. “Not this time. Didn’t mean…”

Leliana finds her mouth, kisses her soft and slow. “Neither did I.”

“Oh.” Sera blushes even deeper, stammers, and _Andraste_ , Leliana can hardly stand the sight of her, can hardly stand her warmth, her trembling strength, her _faith_. “I’m not… that doesn’t…”

She rolls away, a quick sudden movement, limbs tightening all over again as she curls up on her side. She’s facing the wall now, shoulders hunched, and Leliana watches wordlessly as she brings her arms around to hug herself. She recognises this, understands, and she hates that even now it’s a necessity, that even in a moment like this Sera can’t let go of the world she knows.

It is no different to Andraste’s name, she supposes, or perhaps Justinia’s, no different to the way that Leliana herself could never quite banish those unwanted memories even in places where they do not fit, could never quite let go of blades flashing in the darkness and blood dripping through the sheets, of what it means to be a Bard; even now with that life so far behind, still she clings to it. Oh, yes, she understands Sera’s reaction here, sees all too clearly the places where that tension is coming from, but it breaks her heart just the same.

“Sera…”

“Yeah.” Her voice is very small, and so is her frame, shrunk down and defensive. “Guess… uh, guess that’s it, yeah?” She swallows, the sound impossibly loud in the small heavy space. “Wasn’t expecting… I mean… I’m not… we’re not… _it’s_ not…”

She can’t bring herself to say it, of course, but then she doesn’t have to. Leliana didn’t get where she is without a measure of insight, and in any event Sera is hardly subtle; the anticipation is evident in every line on her body, her bare back as tight and tense as anything Leliana has ever seen. It’s as though she’s already back outside in the snow and the sunlight, already threading blunted blades between her fingers, trying to prove her worth all over again. She isn’t shaking now, isn’t trembling or twitching, but Leliana recognises it just the same. The sucked-in breath, the taut lines of her shoulders, the stillness of her limbs… she’s waiting for rejection.

Of course she is; from what Leliana understands, it’s all she knows. Even now, even with the countless ways Leliana has not pushed her aside, still it is the only thing she can fathom in a moment like this, the only idea that makes any kind of sense to her. Not a blade between the sheets, no knife hidden beneath the pillow, oh no, but a clean cut just the same.

“It’s not…” she says again, and this time it’s a offer, an invitation for Leliana to finish, to put them both out of their misery.

She doesn’t.

“It _is_ ,” she says instead, ever so softly. “For now, at least. Tomorrow, who can say? But for now, it is.” She leans in, settles down behind her, arms wrapped around Sera’s too-thin frame. “ _We_ are.”

Sera turns partially to face her. Her eyes are wide, brighter than they should be in the dim half-light, and not just because they’re elven. She doesn’t let herself go, keeps her arms locked tight around her ribs, pressing down on the places Leliana didn’t slide a knife, would never slide one.

Still, though, she meets her gaze, lets her mouth fall open, exposes herself in all the places that matter, the places that bleed so much darker when they get cut, heart and soul and spirit, the places that even the keenest blade could never find, opens herself up and and lays herself bare, just like Leliana did but oh so painfully different. Sera’s heart is as fragile as her skin, and perhaps just as scarred. Her soul isas exposed as her body, the parts that are still sticky and wanton, the parts that are damp with sweat, cooling and content, the parts that are dampening now with other things, with salt and sorrow and a flicker of hope. She is _there_ , all of her, and this time neither of them are leaving.

“Yeah?”

Leliana touches her face. Warm, yes, and reverent and beautiful. She looks like she did back in the chantry, as though Andraste really is here in the room with them, looking down on everything, as though the idea is enough to give her strength, gives her courage, give her _faith_.

That is what Andraste is supposed to do, Leliana thinks, and fights to keep from weeping.

She thinks of Justinia, remembers wondering just a few short hours ago what she would think of this behaviour, how disappointed she would be to see her Left Hand straying so far from her path, her faith, straying so far from everything she made her, everything she helped her to become. She wonders what she would say if she was here, if she learned about this, if she knew that even now, even _now_ Leliana cannot shake the parts of herself that did terrible things, the locked-away corners that even Divine intervention couldn’t save. It is easier, in a way, wondering about the past than the present.

She thinks of Cassandra as well, her eyes, as hard as iron and tougher than obsidian, the sigh in her breath when she told her to leave Justinia alone, to let her rest in peace, to stop asking questions that don’t matter of people who can’t answer. She remembers the way she softened, uncharacteristic and compassionate, the way she told her to allow this, the luxury of feeling, the weakness of being weak, begging her — as much as Cassandra ever begs anyone — to stop dwelling on the memory of a woman that neither of them will ever see again. She remembers how much it hurt, hearing Justinia’s name in the same breath she’s told to leave it behind, as if she ever could.

She can’t, oh no. Not now, perhaps never. But she looks at Sera now, finds the salt on her face, delicate drops of moisture that cling to her fingertips, finds the tremors in her lips, the light dancing behind her eyes, finds and memorises all the little weaknesses that make her hands twitch and shake when she holds a blade. She looks at her and finds faith, finds freedom, finds so much to live for. She finds youth, eagerness, warmth a willingness and wide-eyed wonder, sees a desperate hunger to _learn_ and to _know_ and most of all to _believe_.

She sees in Sera all those things that she once saw in herself, all those things that Josephine still sees. An old Leliana, but so much younger. Young enough to smile and sing and let others see her shaking; long before the Game, long before the Temple of Sacred Ashes, long before the world made her bitter and brutal and blind to what mattered. It is hard to see the version of herself she is now when Sera’s eyes blaze like that old young-Leliana, the smiling friend that Josephine still loves, the faithful compassionate soul that Justinia believed in. They saw it, yes, and perhaps she sees it now as well. Not in herself, not yet, but perhaps, _perhaps_ , if she looks at Sera for long enough… perhaps…

 _‘Leliana’_ , Sera said, as though it truly is as simple as that. _Leliana_ , as though the name is all she needs, all she’ll ever need.

And, yes, perhaps it is. For now. If not tomorrow, at least for now it’s all she needs. Just her, like Sera said. Just her. Just _them_.

“Yes,” she says, and kisses Sera until the dawn breaks over them both.

—


	7. Chapter 7

—

After that, it’s as easy as anything to slip into a routine.

Slowly but surely, Sera’s hands stop shaking when they train. She focuses, works hard, shows diligence and improvement. She stops averting her eyes when Leliana offers criticism or suggestions, stops blanching when Leliana mentions demons, confidence increasing incrementally with her skill. She will never be an expert, at least not by Leliana’s Bardic standards, but she inches her way towards passable with admirable speed and dedication.

Leliana watches her closely, maps out her journey in her head, and takes a great deal of pride in the way she grows. She would never admit such a thing aloud, of course, and certainly not in hearing range of certain ambassadors, but it warms her heart in a way that surprises her… perhaps more, in its own way, than the other kinds of warmth they share.

Sera will never be as good with a blade as she is with a bow. But then, of course, couldn’t that also be said of Leliana herself? Both weapons have served her well enough in their own ways, in any event, and she knows that with enough time and training the same will be true of Sera as well. What more can either of them ask for? 

She has learned a new skill, taken the time to train, to be taught for perhaps the first time in her life. Neither of them came into this with delusions of mastery, and isn’t it enough that they are both still here? She will be good enough, without question, and it is more fulfilling than Leliana could ever have imagined to share her moments of achievement, the shouts of triumph when Sera finally executes a riposte or lands a clean blow in exactly the right way.

Is this how Justinia felt, she wonders, when she chose her to be her Left Hand?

It hurts less, thinking of Justinia in such a way, to close her eyes and imagine her standing there in front of her, gazing at her jaded protegé just as Leliana looks at Sera now, eyes bright and tearful with pride and passion and love, the kind of love that others can’t imagine. It brings a smile to her face, fragile and small but there just the same; when Sera steps back from a well-fought spar, breathless but so proud of herself, when she throws her daggers on the ground and pumps her fist in that endearing way she has, yelling victory to the heavens, shouting to the Breach as though it doesn’t frighten her at all… in those moments, yes, when Leliana glows, it is with Justinia’s light.

They train in daylight, a flurry of blades and words, separating only so that Leliana might attend her duties, and when night falls they come together in her quarters, skin on skin and prayers breathed out into sheets that will never hide a blade. It is simple, comfortable, and after a while Leliana finds that she almost stops thinking about it at all. Slowly, yes, as slowly as Sera’s progress, but it happens; she stops wondering, stops questioning, stops doubting the feeling, the fondness that rises up in her chest, stops worrying every time she finds herself softening. She finds a kind of peace in it, a kind of strength in being so weak.

It is perhaps a week later that Cassandra corners them.

She doesn’t look Leliana in the eye, but there is no mistaking the hint of colour that touches her cheeks when she finds them together. It’s not embarrassment, at least exactly, but more a sense of knowing rather more than she’s comfortable with. Leliana hasn’t mentioned their nocturnal activities to anyone, of course, but Cassandra is one of the most perceptive people she’s ever met, and from her experience the Right Hand always knows precisely what the Left is doing.

There are no secrets between them, nor have there ever been, and in any event Cassandra surely knew full well what would happen if Leliana heeded her advice. A single glance is all it takes, and there it is, the colour rising up her neck, the thinning of her lips, the disgusted noise, and without either of them needing to say a word, still the implication is clear. _‘Yes, I know everything.’_

Leliana, of course, wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Cassandra,” she smiles. “What can we do for you?”

“We?” It is pointed, the way Cassandra echoes the word, and of course she doesn’t smile. “ _You_ , Leliana, can do nothing. No doubt you have already done quite enough.”

“Not yet, she hasn’t,” Sera says, about as tactful as Cassandra on a bad day.

Cassandra glares at her, skin turning a little darker. “Less of that,” she says. “It is you I must speak with.”

Sera instantly turns pale, hands starting to tremble as they did those first few days with Leliana. Needless as she knows it is, the sudden panic is so adorable that she can’t bring herself to intervene.

“Me?” she squeaks. “Ohh, _shite_.”

Leliana laughs, prises the daggers from her hands before she can drop them in the snow and further embarrass herself. “Oh?” she presses, making a point of speaking to Cassandra even with her eyes locked on Sera. “Is there something I should know?”

“Nothing!” Sera blurts out before Cassandra can get a word in. “Whatever it is, it wasn’t me!”

“Of course it wasn’t.” Cassandra grimaces, pinches the bridge of her nose, and shoots Leliana a pointed look. “Honestly, Leliana. Of every soul in the Inquisition, _this_ is the choice you make?” She shakes her head. “Evidently, there is no accounting for taste.”

Sera, of course, is entirely unruffled by the insult. “Don’t mind her,” she chirps to Leliana. “She’s just jealous.”

“Sera…” Leliana warns, but she can’t conceal the fondness colouring her cheeks.

Cassandra clears her throat. She’s making a good show of the disgust, and perhaps it’s enough to fool Sera — though, in truth, probably not even that — but Leliana certainly knows better. She has her face well schooled, lips curling up in exactly the right way, a sneer instead of a smile, brows tilting down to give precisely the right air of disapproval; if they were any other two people in the world, it would be the perfect act. But they are the Right and Left Hands of the Divine, and they have worked together too long and too intimately to fail to see through such posturing. Whether she will admit to it or not, Leliana can tell that Cassandra is pleased, perhaps even relieved. Whether she approves of Sera in and of herself is irrelevant; she sees the smile on Leliana’s face as clear as day, and she knows what it means.

“As I was saying…” she mutters; she’s all business and severity, of course, and that only makes Leliana smile wider. “The Herald has been summoned to the Storm Coast. It is a delicate mission, of some importance, and for some _unfathomable_ reason, she has seen fit to ask that you join us.”

Sera stares at her for a long moment. “The Storm Coast?” she asks, confused, and then a moment later, “Wait, _me_?”

“I…” Cassandra spreads her arms, helpless and disbelieving. “Believe me, I advised against it. But she heard that you have been training under Leliana, and I suppose her curiosity was piqued.” She sighs, the weighted sigh of a genius surrounded by idiots. “It would appear that our spymaster is not the only one lacking in taste or common sense.”

Leliana laughs. “Come now, Cassandra,” she goads. “Do you truly expect us to believe that you’re not a little curious yourself?”

“Should be,” Sera says. “Getting well good at it now. Like, _proper_ good. Aren’t I, Leliana?”

Leliana chuckles, claps her lightly on the shoulder in a vain attempt at quieting her down before Cassandra’s semi-playful scowl turns genuinely serious.

“She is… adequate,” she says. “In any event, Cassandra, you know as well as I do that it would do her a world of good to have her skills tested out in the field. There is only so much damage one can emulate through sparring and training dummies, yes?”

“A fair point, I suppose,” Cassandra huffs, and glares at Sera as though the suggestion was hers all along.

Sera, of course, just grins. “Not fooling anyone with that sour-milk face, Seeker,” she says. “We all know you’re just—”

“—thinking very seriously about leaving you for the demons.”

There’s a gleam in her eye as she says it. That’s about as close to teasing as Cassandra ever gets, but of course it flies right over Sera’s head; the colour drains from her face all over again, and turns to Leliana with terror in her eyes, raw panic the likes of which they have not been forced to deal with since their very first session together. _Adorable,_ Leliana thinks again, and doesn’t even bother to chasten herself.

“She can’t do that,” Sera whines. “You’d kill her, right? _Right_?”

“She could try,” Cassandra snorts, and shakes her head. “In any event, we are to leave sooner rather than later. If you have any preparations to make, I suggest you start now.”

“ _Now_?” She swallows loudly. “Like, _now_ now?”

“That is the generally accepted definition of the word, yes.” The look on her face is genuinely serious this time, making the point that this is not a matter for discussion. “Unless you would prefer to remain here for the foreseeable future, playing childish games with our spymaster until you both wither away of old age?”

“No!” Sera blurts, a little too eagerly. She’s still a little pale, and Leliana notes that her hands are twitching again, but she does an admirable job of keeping her voice steady. “I mean, uh… piss on that, yeah? You’re going, I’m going.”

“Delightful,” Cassandra deadpans.

Leliana rolls her eyes, elbows her in the ribs. “Be nice, Cassandra. You of all people should award a point or two for effort, no?”

Cassandra ignores her. “Go, Sera.”

Sera doesn’t need telling twice. She mumbles something to Leliana, the words all but lost to the flurry of her arms and the heat rising from her skin as she gives her a quick, fierce hug. Leliana scarcely has time to return the gesture, gloved fingers splayed across the plane of Sera’s back, cracked leather to steady her in the split-second before she spins on her heels and flees. Leliana finds that misses the contact when it leaves, and she watches Sera’s departing form with a fond, sad smile.

“That was rather unnecessary, don’t you think?” she says to Cassandra.

“Hardly,” Cassandra says. “As I have said, repeatedly, you coddle her. Left to her own devices, Maker only knows what mischief she would get up to. Somebody must keep her in line.”

“Nonsense.” Still, she laughs. “You just enjoy watching me leap in to defend her.”

Cassandra allows the barest wisp of a smile. “It is… refreshing.”

Leliana bows her head, turns away. An odd choice of words, but it strikes her just the same.

It has been too long since they stood here like this, the two of them, too long since they allowed these moments of relative silliness, of stern looks masking real feelings, of disdain that secretly means approval. Too long, in truth, since the world itself allowed such things. Leliana can scarcely remember a time when Cassandra did not keep a distance of two or three feet, a time when she spoke without caution in her voice, when she allowed Leliana to see her smile. She can scarcely remember the days when they worked hand-in-hand, right and left, when Cassandra would allow her to see the soul behind the Seeker, when Leliana in turn would allow Cassandra to see that there is indeed a woman behind the Nightingale.

 _Refreshing_ , she thinks. And, yes, she supposes it is. Not simply for Cassandra, seeing a side of Leliana that she’d thought all but dead, but for Leliana as well, to hear her say such things.

This time, when she wonders what Justinia would think if she could see them now, the answer comes to her as easy as anything: at least for now, she would be proud of them both.

“Leliana…”

She blinks, frowns. Cassandra is shuffling her feet, an uncharacteristic awkwardness creeping into her voice, onto her face, into every part of her. It is odd; she was so self-assured just a moment ago, and now she is almost as uncomfortable as Sera. Leliana frowns, reaches out to touch her arm.

“Are you all right?”

“What? Of course. I simply…” She clears her throat again. “Never mind. It is nothing.”

“Of course it is.”

It feels somewhat vindicating to throw those words back at her, after all the times Cassandra used them about Sera. _Of course it’s all Josephine’s fault, Leliana! Of course you’re not falling for her, Leliana!_ Arrogant woman, and Leliana takes an obscene amount of petty joy in showing her just how bitter that medicine tasted.

Cassandra, of course, is not impressed. “There is no call for that.”

“Of course there’s not.”

“Ugh.” She throws up her hands, as though surrendering in a battle neither of them were actually fighting. “Very well. If you must know…”

“I absolutely must know.”

Cassandra glares. “Clearly, the girl is incapable. Clearly, she will be eaten alive if she is not tethered. Clearly, bringing her along is a terrible idea.”

“Oh, yes. _Clearly_.”

“Stop that.” She is scowling, but there is something deeper underneath the words, the scowl, underneath all of this needless posturing. Deeper, yes, and truly heartfelt. “Listen. The Inquisition cannot afford to fail this mission. We risk losing resources, time, status… and _lives_ , Leliana. We cannot afford to play the fool. We cannot afford to…”

She trails off with a sigh, and Leliana shakes her head. “I understand all this,” she says softly. “Or did you forget who you are talking to?”

Cassandra sighs again. “Of course. My apologies. In any event, for the good of the mission… indeed, for the good of the _Inquisition_ … I feel it is my duty to… that is…” She clears her throat, flushing hotly, then blurts out in a great rush, “I will ensure that she is kept safe.”

Leliana opens her mouth, then closes it again. “Ah…”

“Do _not_ say it.” Her eyes are narrowed to slits. “It is for the _Inquisition_ , Leliana.”

The deception, of course, is unnecessary, but Leliana understands why she does it. By Cassandra’s standards, this is more than simply a gesture; it is practically a mark of approval. She is not accustomed to showing emotion, Leliana knows, perhaps even less so than she herself, and admitting aloud that that she might care about this, that she might care about _Sera_ , even through the lens of Leliana’s feelings, is more than she is capable of. At the very least, it is more than she feels comfortable with, and of course Leliana respects that.

Still, the gesture cannot be ignored. It is touching, and for all her talents, even Leliana struggles to keep it from reaching her face, from letting Cassandra see how deeply it moves her.

“Well, then,” she says, choosing her words very carefully. “Your concern for ‘the Inquisition’ is admirable.”

“I am aware.”

Leliana bites her lip. The smile on her face is as close to a smirk as she dares when Cassandra has a hand on her sword-hilt. “Perhaps you’re going a little soft as well, hm?”

“Absolutely not. Suggest such a thing again, and I shall—”

“Ah, yes,” Leliana says. “I believe I know this one. Assassins in my bed, no? A blade under my pillow?” She laughs, once and then again when Cassandra’s scowl deepens. “Come now, Cassandra. If it didn’t work from me, it certainly won’t work coming from you. We both know you don’t have the stomach for such things. What is it you always say? _‘Distasteful’_?” Another laugh. “You are transparent.”

“As are you,” Cassandra shoots back, but there is a gleam in her eye that even her glaring cannot conceal.

She turns on her heel, swift and sharp, as though sensing that the moment is at risk of over-extending itself. That in itself is almost as amusing as the posturing; Cassandra has never been the kind to drag a moment out, even when it would benefit everyone to indulge it. It is simply the way she is; in so many ways, she is the opposite of everything Leliana is, or at least everything she used to be, everything she’s slowly learning to become again. Leliana is the one who would always drag a moment out so far beyond its death, while Cassandra would sooner bury herself than risk indulging such things. An unlikely pair, the two of them, yet at their peak they were formidable indeed. The Right hand and the Left… _ah_ , had Justinia lived to see her Inquisition made manifest, the three of them could have shaken the world together.

Perhaps they still will. Not as they’d planned, and with only the two of them left, but if experience has taught Leliana everything it’s that even the best-laid plans can go awry. The world has changed, after all, and so they must as well; at the very least, it seems that the Left and Right Hand will do so together.

“Cassandra?”

She does not turn back, of course. Perhaps she doesn’t want Leliana to see the look on her face, the hard lines and sharp edges softening into something sweeter, something kinder, but she stops, and there is a lilt to her voice when she acknowledges. “Yes, Leliana?”

She does not need to say the words. She knows that; they both do. But she says them anyway, because she is not ashamed.

“Thank you.”

Cassandra grunts. For a moment, Leliana wonders if that is the only response she’ll get; it would hardly be uncharacteristic. Cassandra stands there like that for a moment, shoulders stiff and hand on her sword, as though fighting some great inner battle. Given her loathing for moments like this, perhaps she is. Still, apparently the softer side of her wins out, because almost against her will, she glances back. 

She moves slowly, stiff and formal like she does everything else, but of course it’s not about the movement at all. It’s about her face, about the way she reveals it, lets the sun light up her eyes, her skin, the scar on her cheek, lets Leliana see beyond all shadow of doubt that this time she truly is smiling.

“Do not make me regret it,” she says, then stalks away in a storm of steel.

—

Sera returns later, to say goodbye.

“Frigging Storm Coast,” she says.

Her hands are twitching again, nervous little tremors that run all through her, right up to her lips; Leliana captures them with her own, covers Sera’s hands with cracked leather and shifting seams, covers as much of her as she can find until the little shivers pour into her instead, until Sera gives an open-mouthed gasp. She recognises this, of course; after so much time together, how could she not? Sera’s body always speaks so much louder than her voice, and unlike her head and her heart, it is not so ashamed to admit that it’s afraid.

“You’ll do well,” Leliana tells her. “You’re ready, Sera. You know this, yes?”

“Course I do.”

She pulls out one of her daggers, real this time, sharp and keen and beautiful. Leliana had the materials special-ordered from Val Royeaux, personally oversaw their crafting, made certain that they would be perfect. Sera doesn’t know about that, of course — a spymaster must have some secrets, no? — but she holds them so reverently that she might as well. She threads the blade between her fingers, light flashing off the edge just like Leliana showed her that first day. Her hand shakes, twitches, but she doesn’t let it deter her, and she doesn’t let the dagger fall. Leliana could not be more proud.

“Excellent.”

Sera grins. “Had a great teacher, didn’t I?” She leans in, offers a lewd, conspiratorial wink. “Learned a _lot_ , yeah?”

It takes more effort than she’d ever admit to keep from laughing. Worse, it takes more effort than she wants to admit to keep from leaning in and claiming her mouth — and other parts of her — all over again.

“Sera,” she says instead, and pretends the hitch in her voice is discipline and not a complete lack thereof.

“Right. Yeah.” Sera’s breath hitches too, but in her case it’s nervousness. “Should probably go, I know. It’s just… um…”

She takes a breath, holds it. Leliana counts the tremors in her breathing, her hands; she reaches out, takes the one without the dagger, squeezes gently. It feels very small, as fragile as a hatchling, and the thought kicks in Leliana’s chest like a spasm. She aches to protect her, even to venture out of her own sanctuary, go to the Storm Coast with them if that’s what it would take to keep her safe. She cannot, she knows; her place is here, and she can’t allow her personal feelings to change that. This is not new.

But _oh_ , when Sera looks at her like that, tangled up in hope and fear, what she wouldn’t give to go with her, to protect her. It is little comfort, knowing that this is the right thing, that she has to let her go for both their sakes, for the sake of her own duty and the sake of Sera’s learning. Indeed, it is little comfort to know that she is safe in Cassandra’s care, that the Seeker will certainly not let anything happen to her. Little comfort, yes, because when Sera looks up at her like that, all she wants to do is pull her into her arms and never let her go.

She closes her eyes for a moment, just long enough to steady herself, then she looks down, finds Sera’s gaze, and doesn’t let her see any of that.

“I’ve been to the Storm Coast many times,” she says. “There is no real danger there, I promise.”

“Know that,” Sera grumbles, and ducks her head. Leliana smiles; it is cute that Sera still believes she can hide any part of herself, that she truly believes she’s not as transparent as Cassandra. “It’s just… uh… what if…”

Leliana forces a chuckle, pretends that she knows where this is headed. “Cassandra will not kill you if you vomit on her armour,” she says. “In the first, I have spoken to her, and in the second, it is not nearly as blasphemous as—”

“Not that!” Her petulant little pout is so utterly endearing; Leliana almost wants to cry. “Was going to say, what if I mess up? Still not… you know…” She shoves the dagger into its sheath, scuffs the ground with her toes. “It’s not _easy_ , yeah? And there’s… there’s demons and shite out there… and I’m not… I mean, you won’t be… I mean I’m still… it’s still… _we’re_ still…”

Leliana grips her shoulders. “Sera.”

“I know, I know. Stupid, right? Can’t go into every frigging fight thinking you’re gonna lose before you even start. Know that. I mean… I do. Really.”

“Good. And know this, as well.” She leans in close, kisses Sera’s cheek, looks her right in the eye. “I have faith in you.”

Sera swallows, and the vibration shimmers along Leliana’s nerves. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely. As you say, you had a great teacher, yes? I would trust my students with the fate of the world.”

True or not, it has the desired effect. Sera laughs. It’s a nervous breathy little sound, almost closer to a whine, but it is there just the same, and Leliana knows how much a laugh is worth in moments like this.

“Get off,” she manages. “Put the fate of the frigging world in my hands, there’ll be nothing left to come home to. Just a great big frigging crater, and that’s…”

She trails off, bites her lip, and Leliana frowns at the sudden violence as her whole body shudders. “Sera?”

“Nothing. I mean… nothing, yeah? Just…” She closes her eyes, breathes deep, in and out through her nose, as though fighting off panic. “Coming _home_ , innit? Me. After… you know, when we’re done with this Storm Coast shite. Me and the Heraldy whatsit, and Seeker Cassandra… with, you know, new armour, probably, because of all the…” She gestures, ducks her head. “Storm Coast, right? _Ugh_.”

“Sera.” This clearly means a lot to her, and Leliana takes it seriously, but it is so difficult not to smile when she gets caught up in one of her tangents. “Your point?”

“Uh. Point. Yeah. Point is, we come home, right? And you… I mean… you know… you’ll be… you won’t… I mean… you’ll still…” She closes her eyes. “You will, right?”

She hasn’t actually managed a cohesive question, but Leliana understands just the same. “Yes, Sera,” she says, as soft as a breath. “I will still be here.”

“Yeah?” She looks so vulnerable, so unfathomably small. “I mean, not just here, you know? Not just, like, Haven or wherever. Mean like, you know… _here_. Like, the place where… where…” She swallows hard, forces the words out. “The place where _I_ am.”

The question is not a subtle one, but then Sera has never been one for subtlety. It is, perhaps, one of the reasons why Leliana feels so deeply for her. Everything is on the surface, on display, raw and razed and vulnerable; it makes Leliana ache to cover her, strangle the things that would take advantage of her honesty, keep her safe from the world that has abused her and left her so raw. It hurts, the look in her eyes, the moisture trembling in them, as fragile and delicate as the tremors in her hands, the tremors lighting up every inch of her.

“I will be here,” Leliana says again.

Sera swallows, nods. “Not just…” Her jaw tightens, whitens. “I mean… it’s okay, you know? It doesn’t… you don’t… don’t have to be…”

“I know,” Leliana says. “But I am.”

Sera nods again, but makes no move to leave. Leliana smiles to herself, indulges a vision of Cassandra tapping her foot and letting out her impatience in disgusted noises; it’s too enticing an image to pass up, really, and though she knows she should be the one taking this seriously, hurrying Sera along, reminding her that the mission doesn’t wait, still she finds herself keeping quiet, standing in silence there and watching her, relishing these final few moments.

Foolish, she knows. Sentimental and silly and senseless. Sera is going to the Storm Coast, not the other side of Thedas, and there was truth in her words when she said it’s not dangerous. No doubt Sera will be by her side again before either of them have even started to count the minutes of separation. She knows that, of course. But still…

Sera shuffles her feet. “Still got lots left to learn, yeah?”

“Absolutely.” It is as close to a vow one as either one of them will ever venture. “Melee combat is but a tiny part of what I can teach you. Stealth, subterfuge, sabotage… all valuable talents, yes? We can’t stop now, just because you’ve got a handle on the basics. There is much ground left for us to cover, if you’ve the stomach for it.”

“Yeah?” Her eyes are bright, lit up with hope and other unspeakable things. “I mean… uh…”

Leliana squeezes her shoulder, lets the contact slip lower until she’s holding her hand again. “As long as you have the will to learn, I have things to teach you.”

“Yeah?” Again, always with that flicker of doubt. Leliana silences it with a kiss, chaste and fleeting. “I mean, uh, good, yeah? Because that… not getting shown up by the frigging Herald, yeah? Got to be better than her. And I… I mean, learning stuff is shite, yeah… but from you… or, uh… _with_ you, I guess…”

Leliana pulls her in, holds her close for a few breathless moments. She’ll never admit to anyone, least of all herself, just how much it hurts to let her go. Foolish, she knows; the Herald’s party will return in due course, as it always does. There’s no reason for such silliness, for the emptiness that gnaws in her, the sorrow that resonates a little too closely to her memories of Justinia, to her brief time with the Hero of Ferelden before it all went sour, to so many things that so quickly became so terrible.

This will not. She knows that, of course. Cassandra has promised to watch out for Sera, and Leliana would trust the Seeker with her own life. It is childish, the way she pines, the way she aches for one more moment, one more kiss, as though she will never see her again at all. Childish, foolish, and a part of her knows all too well that this kind of attitude gets people hurt, or worse. Whether there is any shame or weakness in allowing such things is not the issue here; it is _dangerous_ to be distracted by such longing.

And yet as Sera turns to leave, false bravado splitting her face into a grin, Leliana can’t help thinking that it’s worth the risk.

It is a fine balance, she knows, between listening to the people who care about her, and knowing as only she does the cost of what they suggest. It is one thing to allow these feelings, to bask in them in moments like this, but it is another thing entirely to drown in the ache that surges in her chest, the affection that weakens her knees as Sera scampers off to the stables, Cassandra’s name high on her lips.

That this is potentially damaging is not a question: it is a fact. And perhaps if Cassandra or Josie had lived the life that Leliana has, if they had seen the cost of feeling, they would understand her reticence, her caution, her _doubt_. Perhaps, yes… but then, perhaps if she had lived their lives in turn she too might understand their willingness to be open, their eagerness for her to be the same.

It was not compassion that broke Josephine’s heart all those years ago, Leliana knows, and it was not feeling that hardened Cassandra’s. They have learned painful lessons as well, as sure and as true as Leliana has learned hers, but the knowledge they took from them is very different. They know things that she does not, understand nuances that she left in the ashes of the sacred temple.

So, then, perhaps their perspective carries as much weight as hers. Perhaps she is not the only one who makes a valid point. Perhaps…

… perhaps Sera is not the only one with more yet to learn.

—

That evening, she goes to the chantry.

There’s a kind of irony in that, she supposes. She is restless, pacing the tiny space of her office-tent, struggling to keep from thinking about the Storm Coast, about waves breaking and rain lashing and wind whipping, about the cold and the damp and the slippery rocks, about demons and Fade rifts and Maker only knows what else. It all builds up in her head, a flood rising higher and higher, all the little things that could go wrong with even the simplest task.

The irony, of course, lies not in her choice of destination, but in her reasoning. The chantry is safe, she tells herself, pulling her hood up over her head. It will be an excellent _distraction_.

And yes, in a way, it is. It doesn’t silence her thoughts, not entirely, but then again it never has. That is not what a chantry is for; it is not why she worships, and never has been. But oh, it is good at what it does; turns her away from the darker roads, the unpleasant thoughts, turns her back towards the light, the safety of faith and compassion.

She stands there, gazing up at Andraste’s statue, and thinks not of what could go wrong but of what has gone right.

Just a week earlier, standing here like this was enough to tighten her stomach, twist her heart, turn every part of her away from her faith. A week, no more, she would bow her head, stare stubbornly down at the floor, count out the tiles to keep from looking up and seeing the Maker’s Bride. She would have done anything to keep from thinking of Divine Justinia, to keep from remembering what places like this meant to her, to keep from listening to the Chant and hearing it echo in Justinia’s voice. Just a week, and she could scarcely endure the thought of Andraste, let alone gaze upon her face like this.

She lost her temper when Sera lost her her dignity, shouted and screamed at her, didn’t stop to question why, didn’t stop to think at all. Thinking was painful, but the word cut deep; _defile_ , yes, and she could not ignore the wounds left behind from last time. She was so full up on rage and fury and doubt, so angry at the idea that history might repeat itself, so certain that it would, that it already had.

She was confused, yes, angry and upset, raging and storming and lashing out against the word that hurt her, not even stopping to think of its meaning. It was the only sense she could make of the chaos, the doubt inside of her, and she clung to the pain because she could not conceive of a world without it.

Now, she can. Now, she looks up at the statue, at Andraste’s somber face, and laughs.

“My, my, my…”

Josephine. Of course. Her voice is light, teasing, and Leliana ducks her head to shroud her smile. “Good evening.”

Of course Josie doesn’t return the greeting; apparently, when she’s not playing ambassador for visiting dignitaries there’s no need for basic politeness. “Laughter?” she asks instead, feigning outrage. “In the _chantry_? Surely you of all people should know better.”

Leliana softens her laughter to a chuckle. “Ah, yes. Maker forbid the Left Hand of the Divine be seen in a good mood.”

“And in _public_ , no less!” She lets out an exaggerated gasp, mock-horror mingling with the genuine affection that is always just below the surface in moments like this. “Who are you, and what have you done with my Leliana?”

Leliana turns to face her, lets her see the glow on her face, the sincerity of her smile. “I have no idea,” she says, quite truthfully. “Do let me know if you see her.”

“I shall certainly do that.” Josephine chuckles too, but she sobers far more quickly than Leliana does. “Ah, but to be serious for a moment…”

“Must we?”

“I’m afraid so.”

A single glance at her face is enough to see that it’s not true seriousness at all, but a different kind, a sort of sobriety that comes with honesty and emotion. Still, though, Leliana indulges her. “Very well. Go on, then.”

“It is…” Josephine sighs, shakes her head. “It is a surprise to see you here. A pleasant one, of course… but a surprise nonetheless.”

“You see me here every morning, Josie.”

She cocks her head towards the makeshift war room, the little corner where the Inquisition makes its most important decisions, the kind that shake nations, or that will once they get their feet off the ground and the sky stitched up. Every morning, yes, because the world does not stop for crises of faith or moments of mourning. Every morning, no matter their moods, and no matter how hard it has been on occasions to make that journey, the short sharp walk from the front doors to those looming back ones, still Leliana has never missed a meeting. Without fail, yes, every morning she is here.

But of course, that is not what Josie’s talking about. That chantry, the one they share every morning, might as well be an entirely different building, an entirely different world; certainly it is no sanctuary for the faithful. In there, she finds only stark blank walks, a solid table with delicate little markers and a map large enough to serve as a blanket for a dozen refugees. Out here, the Chantry is inescapable; the familiar coloured banner, the Chant of Light, the fractured glass to let the sunlight in, alters and stone steps and the great big statue of Andraste. In that room, she can pretend they are in a bubble, far from here; out here, she cannot hide from Andraste’s eyes, cannot turn away from the Maker, cannot block out the prayers of the faithful.

She is here every morning, yes. Face shrouded in shadow, hood pulled over her head, the Inquisition’s spymaster is always ready for duty. But, _ah_ , how long has it been since Sister Nightingale stood before the Maker and sang?

“ _Here_ , Leliana,” Josie says again, slow and deliberate and calling her out just as Leliana knew she would. She does not clarify, but of course she doesn’t need to. “Smiling, laughing… you are practically _glowing_! Dare I ask what happened?”

Leliana snorts, a very different kind of laugh. “You know perfectly well what happened.” She keeps her voice tight, aggressive, though she knows it won’t fool Ambassador Montilyet. “You and your meddling. _‘Oh, Leliana, she needs training!’_ and _‘oh, Leliana, you need a distraction!’_ and _‘oh, Leliana, what’s the harm?’_. What did you expect would happen?”

“I did not expect anything.” She sounds sincere enough, though Leliana doesn’t believe it. “Do not give me that look. I am quite serious. Truly, I _expected_ nothing. However, I… well, I _hoped_.”

“Of course you did.” She shakes her head, turns back to Andraste so that Josephine won’t see her blush, won’t see the moment her thoughts turn to other things. She thinks of Sera’s hands, her mouth, thinks of the Chant of Light breathed into her. “I suppose I should thank you?”

“Absolutely not.” Still, her voice is a smile, the kind of maddening self-satisfaction that says _‘I told you so’_ , that says the only reason she expects no gratitude is because he rown self-righteousness is reward enough. “I am simply relieved, that is all. You were becoming… well, you know what you were becoming as well as I do, I am sure, to say nothing of where that particular path leads. I was afraid for you. I only wanted what was best…”

“Ah, yes. And of course, you always know what that is.”

“Not at all.” There is a sobriety in her now, a quiet seriousness that belies the tender moment, the gentle humour spread out between them, old and familiar and warm. Her voice is very low, though it carries easily enough through the still chantry air, and it makes Leliana turn to look at her, look and truly listen. “I only did what I imagined Divine Justinia would have done in my place, what _she_ would have thought was best.”

Leliana feels a pang go through her; it is sharp, unpleasant, but bearable. “You did not know her.”

“I did not need to know her.” Her smile is so soft, an aching, beautiful revenant of a past that neither of them can ever return to. “You speak of her with every breath, Leliana. You think of her in every second, ache for her with every heartbeat. I do not need to know her, Leliana, because I know _you_.”

“And that’s enough, is it?” She tries to laugh again, but the sound lodges in her throat, dry as ashes. “To look at me and imagine her?”

“Yes.”

She leans in, kisses Leliana lightly on the cheek, the forehead. The contact lingers even after she pulls away, sweet-tasting echoes of the way Leliana kisses Sera, the way she used to kiss Josie as well, echoes of the way they used to stand like this, the two of them in Val Royeaux, long before there was ever a Divine Justinia.

They are painful, those echoes, but beautiful as well, and perhaps Josephine is right after all. Perhaps there is a place for the past in the present. Perhaps it is enough to simply look at someone and imagine someone else, a friend or a lover or someone so much more; perhaps it is enough to catch even just a ghost of a glimpse, the memory of a memory, to see and imagine and believe. Isn’t that what _faith_ means, after all?

To _believe_ , yes, the way Leliana used to, the way she still should. The Left Hand of the Divine, head bowed as she whispers her prayers, the Chant of Light lit up under Andraste’s gaze, her stoic and sorrowful face carved out in stone, and the echoing memories of a woman who knew how much weight those words carried.

The Chant of Light means something else now, and so does Andraste. Leliana sees her face now and thinks not of Justinia but of Sera. A part of her thinks that is terrible, that it’s blasphemy or worse, that she should be punished. She hears those holy words and remembers the most illicit things, Sera’s hands on her skin, palms slick with sweat, her mouth and her tongue and the dark places they claimed for their own. She looks up at the Bride of the Maker and remembers the most shameful confessions, Sera face-down on the floor, the awful sounds as she retched and heaved, the worse ones when she confessed.

These things should fill her with shame, should make her bow her head and run from this place, bathe until her skin is raw, seek out repentance from Mother Giselle. It should make her hang up everything she ever held dear… but it doesn’t.

Scarcely a week ago, she could not bear the sight of this place. She would keep her head bowed as she walked through, not out of reverence or prayer but out of hate and hurt, not with faith but with doubt. She would turn her face away from Andraste’s, turn her thoughts away from the Maker, and anyone in Chantry robes would look at her and say, _‘that is the Left Hand of the Divine; see how faithful she is!’_. She was so lost, so broken, even as she presented the perfect image. _That_ was shameful, she thinks. _That_ was false and blasphemous and wrong. This, now…

 _Now_. Now, she looks up at Andraste’s graven image, and yes, she laughs. But her laughter is unfettered and faithful, and it echoes in perfect harmony with the Chant of Light.

What is that, she wonders, if not the work of something Divine?

After a long, breathtaking moment, Josephine pulls back. Her eyes are bright, gleaming in the candlelight, shining with tears. She is beautiful, truly, in a way that makes Leliana think of that long-buried past, that makes her think of Sera and wonder if perhaps it’s not so far gone as she once believed. She has returned from the dead before, after all; in a place like this, who is to say it can’t happen again?

“I am happy for you, Leliana.”

“As am I.” She lets the truth of it resonate inside of her, lets it catch the spark of faith and ignite to a flame.

Josephine kisses her again, a moment’s memory lit up in the contact, promises and prayers brought to life in a time when they were both young and innocent, when the world was simple and so were their lives. A moment, nothing more, and then she is gone, and Leliana is left alone with Andraste.

It has been an exhausting journey. From devout to doubting to something in between, something unclear but warm and safe, something that feels pure, to finding herself here, stood before the Maker’s Bride and so sure that she can feel His presence again. For the first time in years, she can close her eyes and know in her soul that He is watching her, can open them again, look up and see that Andraste sees her too through those graven stone-carved eyes, eyes that make Leliana think of Sera, that make her think of blasphemous things with all the faith the world.

It is as close to a miracle as anything Leliana has ever known. She, who has died and yet lived, who has survived two disasters at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She, who Sera believes is touched, who touches Sera with reverent hands, who is only now starting to remember what true reverence means. She, who has seen more miracles than anyone should ever have to, and yet _this_ touches her like no other.

It is being weak without weakness; it is feeling without faltering. It is both of those things without apology, without regret, without _doubt_. It is the sheer impossibility of being here at all, of standing beneath a statue of the Maker’s Bride, looking up and seeing everything she thought she would never see again, never feel again, of finding it in a place like this, in a soul like Sera’s, in a world without a Divine. It is being in a chantry again and not wanting to run away; it is laughing with the sheer joy of believing.

It is being alive for the first time in years and not wishing she was dead.

She gazes up at the statue, at _Andraste_ , and lets the ghost of a smile lift her lips. Thinks not of Sera or Josephine, or of the Maker, but of Justinia. She remembers the woman who was her friend, her mentor, remembers looking up at her with wide hopeful eyes, remembers blushing and stammering and hiding the twitches in her hands, fear and awe and love. She remembers Justina’s words, her guidance, all the things she taught her, all the little ways she brought a troubled young woman back from the brink, all the ways she made her into something else, something better.

And yes, Cassandra was right. And yes, Josephine was right. Those things should not go to waste, should not disappear to a haze of grief and pain and loss. They should be celebrated.

And yes, she does celebrate it. Perhaps she has been already, for longer than she realises. Every time she studies Sera’s hands, counts the tremors, remembers her own; every time she helps her to still them, remembers Justinia holding her close, easing her worries with whispers of the Chant. Every time she teaches her a new trick, lights up with pride and love when she pulls it off, and remembers the way Justinia smiled to see her do the same. Every time Sera becomes something new, something brighter under her guidance, and she remembers how it felt to be truly born again.

And, yes, when Sera returns from the Storm Coast, they will do it all over again. Leliana will teach her, and Sera will learn and laugh and kiss her until they’re both breathless, awaken the parts of Leliana that still ache when they’re too quiet. They will whisper prayers and promises and memories in the darkness of her quarters, skin on skin and mouths locked together, sharing breath and belief; Leliana will hold Sera’s hands so tightly that they will not twitch, and Sera will hold Leliana’s so tightly in turn that neither of them will ever bleed.

Leliana will never stop thinking of Justinia, will never stop seeing her in everything she does, everything she is. But perhaps that is for the best. And, _yes_ , it is certainly something to celebrate. When Sera pulls away, breathless and satisfied, Leliana will kiss her in chaste, intimate places, her forehead and her cheek and her eyelids, kiss her and kiss her and thank her; she will offer all those things that she herself was offered so long ago. She will imagine, as Josephine said, all the things she knew of Justinia, all the things she herself must become in her wake.

She will _celebrate_ her, yes, in the only way she can: not by wishing to take her place in death, but by taking her place in life.

She kneels before the statue, before Andraste and the Maker and whatever echo of Divine Justinia might yet linger in this place, this world. Kneels, yes, and bows her head in prayer.

“ _Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide_ …”

—


End file.
